


Life Lessons for the Newly Liberated Circle Mage

by manka



Series: Miracles and Heroes of Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair (Dragon Age) is a Good Friend, F/M, Hardened Alistair (Dragon Age), King Alistair, Leliana (Dragon Age) Knows All, Mabari, Mage Origin, Mage Rights, Shale loves Sten, Sneak Leliana (Dragon Age), Sweet Zevran Arainai, Virgin Alistair (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai being Zevran Arainai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-01-24 13:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18572815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/manka
Summary: The templars locked Chantal Amell in a tower when she was six years old. She wasn't even eighteen when she was offered a choice between freedom and punishment.Unfortunately, freedom came with the blight. Her new friend Alistair promised to help her learn everything she needed to know about life outside the tower. It helped she was very good at lesson number one:Don't get killed by darkspawn.This is all of the Warden's life lessons collected in short drabbles. Smut possible (probable, really, it is Zevran) and cuteness can be expected.





	1. The First and Most Important Lesson

 

"So, did you ever… leave the circle before?" 

"Do you think this is the right flower?" 

 

Their questions overlapped in the tense silence and Chantal looked up, tipping her head to side. Alistair had his hand on the back of his neck, looking down at her. The other two men were a fair distance away and, she noted with irritation, not looking for the flower like they had said they would. To be honest, both men had seemed pretty irked that she refused to head back to Ostagar until she found the flower to cure that poor dog at camp. She was pretty sure they would have tried to sling her over one of their shoulders and carry her back, except Alistair had acquiesced easily to her demand. 

"Well, it's certainly yellow like he said." Alistair provided, rather unhelpfully. "I think all of these kind of look the same, to be honest. Botany was never something I picked up."

"A serious deficit in templar training." She smiled, shy and unsure of her own joke. It seemed like it was okay to joke with Alistair, almost expected. 

Immediately, Alistair grinned. "You're right! We should make sure to teach botany to all Grey Warden recruits. I'll tell Duncan."

Chantal grabbed the flowers and tugged them free, roots and all. She shook the dirt from them impatiently and held them up proudly. "Success?" 

"Almost as impressive as when you electrocuted that Hurlock. You're a mage of many talents." Daveth said smoothly, inserting himself next to Chantal. He was so close that Chantal could smell the sharp tang of cologne. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. 

"May we return now?" Ser Jory asked wearily, directing his attention to Alistair. Alistair smiled down at her with a mock bow. 

"If your botanical studies are completed…" He trailed off, teasing. Chantal stuffed the flowers into the pouch around her waist and trailed leisurely behind the other two men, Alistair at her elbow. 

"No." She answered finally. Alistair looked down at her, brow furrowed, mouth opening into a comical confused circle.

"I never left the tower. Before." She added quickly, flushing nervously. "I… I don't remember what happened before. I was a little kid, and I did my lessons and we had a courtyard for exercise. But I never left. If my friend hadn't…" 

She trailed off guiltily. "It was my home."  

"We can go visit! Maybe do some recruiting of our own."  Alistair’s enthusiasm was almost endearing. “They don’t really turn people into toads, right? That’s a rumor.” 

“I don’t think they’d want me back.” Chantal admitted quietly. “Even to visit. I guess I’ll just have to get used to living outside the tower.” 

She tried to force cheerfulness into her voice. And really, it was nice, wasn’t it? She’d never seen trees up close before, and the ground felt different under her feet. It was a grand adventure, a chance to see the whole world outside of a book. And everything was so… very large. She hadn’t realized how much space there was in the world. 

She hadn’t realized that she was actually very, very small. 

“Well, that’s easy enough.” Alistair’s eyes were gentle as the mabari’s had been back at camp. “You’ve already mastered the first lesson of surviving outside the tower, after all.” 

“What was the first lesson?” Chantal asked curiously, clambering over a fallen log. 

“Don’t get killed by darkspawn.” Alistair flashed her another boyish grin. “Arguably, the most important.” 

She couldn’t help it, she laughed out loud. It bounced off the trees and startled her, bringing a hand to her own mouth. Alistair shook his head in amusement. “The second lesson should probably have something to do with ale. I’ll think about it.” 

“Alistair, thank you.” Chantal said sincerely. “You’re awfully nice. For a templar.” 

“Failed templar.” Alistair corrected. “Just remember…” 

He looked down at her and she saw something dark and sad flit across his boyish face. It was easy to forget, but he couldn’t be much older than she was. Children, still, really. And sorrow like that didn’t belong on Alistair’s boyish face. “First lesson, don’t die. Most important one.” 

“Got it.” She promised reassuringly. “Don’t die. Especially by darkspawn.” 


	2. Don't Eat Fish You Don't Catch Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second lesson has to do with fish and carrying on.

he was so hungry it  _ hurt _ . Her stomach protested noisily about the emptiness that clenched her guts and made her surly. She swore she was hungrier than she’d ever been since Ostagar, but she was losing weight anyway from all the constant marching. She’d been soft, once. By the time they stumbled onto the highway to Lothering, she felt as lean as Alistair. 

The other people on the road didn’t even look at them. Despite that, she twitched her hood over her head nervously. Morrigan followed her lead and did the same, although she still looked like a wicked witch even with her cold glare muffled. 

Alistair didn’t bother to hide his face. He stared down at his own feet, silent as a ghost. He barely spoke the whole journey through the Wilds, not even to respond to the barbed comments from their new witch friend. 

“Ah. Look at them scurry about.” Morrigan tutted, shaking her head. “Fools. They’ll be dead in days.” 

Morrigan, Chantal decided, would never be in charge of moral. 

“Perhaps they’ll escape.” Chantal leaned heavily on her staff, watching as a farmer prodded along an ancient looking mule. “There’s still time.”

Morrigan shot her an icy look and said nothing else. She didn’t need to, Chantal remembered Ostagar only too well. She would never forget the flood of darkspawn, the endlessness of it. A tide that would sweep all of Ferelden into the abyss. 

And who was left to stop it? 

Before she could descend into that swirling panic and dread, the same way she did every night when they stopped to make camp, Chantal smelled something mouthwatering in the air. Roasted meat of some kind, spiced heavily. Her stomach lept in anticipation and she turned on her heel. “Do you smell that?” 

“Misery and refuse?” Morrigan asked sarcastically. Alistair found it in himself to look up, confused. But Chantal had spotted the origin of the delicious smell, a man holding out sticks of roasted meats to the fleeing villagers and farmers. Thank the Maker for commerce, she thought in relief. 

“Do we have coin?” Chantal asked brightly, grabbing at Alistair’s pouch. Before he could stop her, she had tugged it free and spilled out a handful of copper and silver into her palm. Morrigan raised an eyebrow in disapproval as Chantal nearly skipped cheerfully across the road. 

“Aye, smells good?” The man gave her a broad, toothless grin. “Want a taste?” 

“What is it?” Alistair was at her elbow, holding onto her tightly. Like a lifeline, almost. 

“Fish caught right from…” 

“No.” 

Morrigan and Alistair both said the word at the same time and Alistair was already pulling her away from the man. “Sorry, not today.” He continued on breezily. 

“But…” Chantal could almost feel the whine in her voice. 

“Are you daft?” Morrigan asked severely. “Do you wish to be ill?”

“It smells great.” 

Alistair and Morrigan were both staring at her as Alistair dragged her along. For two people who couldn’t talk to each other without descending into insults, they were wearing identical expressions torn between amusement and disbelief. 

“She spent her whole life in a tower.” Alistair said finally, as if he’d settled on the answer to an unasked question. 

And in the tower, she’d at least gotten three meals a day. She’d eaten nothing but berries for  _ days _ . She pulled her arm free of Alistair’s and spun, glaring at both of them. She stabbed her staff into the ground in emphasis and drew herself up to her full height. Unfortunately, both of them still towered over her. 

“We have the coin!” She protested vehemently. “I like fish!” 

Morrigan folded her arms over her chest and glared down at her. Alistair rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled softly. 

It was the first time he’d laughed since Ostagar. 

“Chantal, you can’t… you can’t buy fish off of strangers. Anything else, you may be okay. But never eat fish you didn’t catch yourself.”

“I’ve never caught a fish.” Chantal reasoned. Morrigan threw her arms down in exasperation. 

“My mother has sent me with you to die.” Morrigan grumbled. She jabbed a finger into Chantal’s sternum. “If you eat fish sold my some beggar off the side of the highway, you will become ill, and I shall not be providing any antidotes to cure you, blight be damned. I did not come with you to cure a child’s food poisoning!” 

“Just as well, anything she makes is probably worse than the fish for your health.” Alistair grinned.

And she would have felt bad about starting the argument that Morrigan had so clearly been itching for, but she was damned relieved to see him smile. Maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t ending after all. 

“You can both teach me to fish.” Chantal interrupted what she was sure was going to be a lengthy rant from Morrigan. 

“For the…. Do we have nothing more important to accomplish?” Morrigan rubbed at her forehead. 

“Brilliant. I’ll find a pole.” Alistair beamed. “You know, I always wanted to teach someone to fish.” 

“Alas, you were recruited as a Grey Warden instead.” Morrigan muttered.

The barking surprised all of them. While they had wandered, they had outpaced all the other travelers. Except one very large, noisy one that crested the hill behind them. “There’s no way any of the mabari survived, right?” Alistair asked, squinting behind them. 

Chantal didn’t get a chance to answer. The mabari launched himself into her with all the power of a spell, knocking her directly off her feet and onto the road. Dust erupted in a cloud around them and the dog whimpered, before a rough tongue lashed her cheek eagerly. 

Chantal giggled, turned her head. 

“Charming.” Morrigan commented, but even beneath the dog, Chantal swore she saw a small amused smile. 

“Hello!” Chantal burried her fingers into the scruff of the dog’s warm fur as he continued to lick. “Hello! Stop!” 

Immediately, the dog retreated, sitting on his massive haunches and tilting his head to the side. Chantal propped herself up on one arm and stared into the warm brown eyes. He panted eagerly, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. 

It was the same Mabari, the one she brought the flower for. Tears pricked her eyes. “The darkspawn couldn’t keep you down, could they?” She asked, bringing herself up to her knees. The dog barked, as if to say  _ They didn’t get you either! _

She couldn’t help it, emotion burned the back of her throat like the sip of brandy Alistair had given her before the battle. She threw her arms around the beast’s neck, buried her face in his fur. 

Everyone was dead and they needed to save Ferelden. Alone. 

She could never go home again. 

Alistair’s devastated face, etched into her memory clearly, the moment they realized Loghain was retreating. 

The mabari whimpered and she held onto his neck tighter. “Good boy.” She cooed breathlessly. “Clever boy.” 

 

That evening, they made camp by a stream and the Mabari sniffed it tentatively before jumping into the water with a mighty splash. They looked up in time to see him emerge with a flopping trout clamped in his jaws. 

“It appears.” Morrigan began dryly. “You will eat fish tonight after all.”

The mabari dumped the fish in front of Chantal and nudged it toward her eagerly. Laughing, she bent to scoop it up. “Well, serah, I suppose you have earned your keep. I dub thee, Warden Trout!” 

Alistair laughed so hard he nearly fell into the stream and for a moment, Chantal believed they would be alright. 


	3. You Can't Save Them All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal can't save everyone, but she can save someone.

The villagers of Lothering seemed paralyzed by the situation. Some, it was true, took to the road and fled the moment Loghain’s forces marched back to Denerim. Others… waited. For what, Chantal couldn’t say. According to the locals, more trickled out every day but others waited resolutely. 

“Some have brothers, sisters, husbands, and wives in King Cailan’s army.” Leliana whispered gently. “It is hard to believe the Maker has taken them. They do not wish to lose hope. Others… this has been their home for generations.” 

“But they’re going to die.” Chantal protested, wrapping her arms around herself as she paced by their fire. Alistair had set up their camp far from the other refugees and travelers on the outskirts of Lothering. They were, apparently, traitors to the crown and needed to remain hidden. 

Chantal Amell once lived a quiet life. With books and spells, trapped in a magic tower. That hadn’t been more than a month ago. Now, she was a Grey Warden  _ and _ a traitor. She suddenly wished her life was much less exciting. 

At least Leliana was a blessing. Her bow and arrow would be useful and she could cook (without complaining ceaselessly, like Morrigan.) Beyond that there was something… peaceful about Leliana’s faith. If the Maker was with them, then maybe everything wasn’t lost after all. 

“You cannot save everyone.” Leliana gently placed her hand over Chantal’s shoulder, peering down into her eyes. “It is the Maker’s will that you continue on, or perhaps all of Ferelden is lost.” 

So far, Chantal hadn’t saved  _ anyone _ except, perhaps, Trout. The Mabari was at her heels now, watching the people scurry around with her in the darkness. Chantal tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“It is amazing, you look so like this village girl.” Leliana shook her head as if in disbelief. “If there was time, I would take you to her! Perhaps you have a long lost sister?” 

“I was told I had two brothers and a sister, but they’re dead.” Chantal stated simply. “All mages, except maybe the babe that died with my mother. I never met any of them.” 

“Oh.” Leliana said quietly, as if at a loss for words. Chantal Amell, the only survivor of Revka Amell’s children. The only survivor of her Grey Warden initiation. One of the only surviving Grey Wardens in Ferelden. 

And yet, she was incapable of saving Lothering. It would burn when the horde came, and everyone that was still here with it. 

She looked over the horizon, found her gaze drawn once more to the frightening steel cage in the distance and the large figure sitting within it. The qunari murderer, who would be helpless when the darkspawn arrived. 

“I can’t save everyone.” Chantal repeated quietly. But, she could save someone. Leliana followed her gaze. 

“I may not have mentioned it, but I can pick locks quite well.” 

Chantal shot the redhead a look out of the corner of her eye. “You are a very unusual chantry sister.” 

“Am I?” Leliana asked sweetly. Chantal shook her head and took a step forward away from the fire, into the night. 

“Where are you going?” Alistair called out forlornly from behind them. 

 

The Qunari was sitting within the cage, but his eyes followed them as soon as they appeared. “You return.” Sten rumbled from deep within his chest. “Bas saarebas, have you no blight to stop?”

“Come with me.” Remarkably, her voice didn’t falter. She maintained her eye contact with the qunari. Slowly, he stood, unfolding to his true height like erecting a ladder. Everyone was taller than her, but Sten… loomed. “You said you lost your honor. Come with me and find it again.” 

“Is honor so easy for you to find?” Sten asked gruffly. “You are a woman, no fighter.” 

“I am.” Chantal replied quietly, taking a step forward to the bars and putting one hand on them. “Come with me and see. Help me stop the blight, or stay here and let the darkspawn gnaw on your bones.” 

Sten stared down at her, she stared up at him. Finally, he nodded. Chantal tried not to let her relief show. “Leliana, open it.” 

The sister knelt, lockpicks appearing like magic in her hands. Chantal felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, heard Alistair whisper at her ear. “Chantal, are you  _ sure _ ?” 

No, she wasn’t sure rescuing the murderous qunari was a good idea, but she nodded anyway. “Tell Morrigan to pack up. We need to head out tonight.” 

Alistair withdrew and the door popped open. Sten stepped over the threshold of the cage, into the dark night air. “I require a sword, bas saarebas.” 

“Warden.” Chantal corrected. “You can call me Warden, and we’ll get you a sword.” 

“As you insist.” Sten rumbled. 


	4. Any Fight You Can Walk Away From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any fight you can walk away from is a good fight.

Chantal knew it was going to be a bad day the moment the tree fell behind them, separating them from Bodhan’s cart. Luckily, the arrow that had been aimed at her heart found Alistair’s shield instead as he threw it in front of her with a roar of indignation. She could still hear the arrow thudding into the wood over the rapid beating of her heart. That had been  _ damn _ close. 

She didn’t know which archer had actually shot that arrow, but only one of the group was still alive, so she assumed she got her revenge. 

Of course, he kept calling himself a crow and Chantal had no idea what that even meant, so Lelina had to smoothly step in and explain that they were an exclusive guild of assassins with a rather high success rate. “The Crows are rather infamous where I am from.” The man on the ground replied glibly. 

Even underneath the dirt of battle he was… remarkably attractive. Leliana had noticed it too, she could tell because the redhead had very suddenly felt the need to preen at her hair as she spoke. Chantal kept her arms crossed over her chest and her face stony on principle. 

“Obviously not for being very good assassins.” Chantal said off-handedly. 

“I see how it is! You Fereldens mock your prisoners. Such cruelty.” The elf was rather flippant for being on the ground at the wrong end of Alistair’s blade. In spite of herself, Chantal had to fight off the smile. The elf’s eyes flicked to her mouth and his own smile widened. 

Chantal tried to regain control, pulling herself up straight. “Who hired you to kill us?” She demanded. 

She was not surprised the elf named Loghain. She wilted a bit and cast a look up at Alistair. His mouth had thinned into a grim line. How in the Maker’s name were they supposed to stop the Blight  _ and _ deal with Loghain? 

“When were you to see him next?” Leliana asked. 

“I wasn’t. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results… if he did not already know. If I failed, I should be dead. No need to see Loghain then, I suppose.” 

“If he had failed?” Morrigan scoffed. “Slit his throat and be on our way.” 

“The chances of succeeding at this point do seem a bit slim!” The elf laughed at his own joke. Alistair, Morrigan, Leliana, Chantal, Sten, and Trout all looked at each other in silent disbelief. “No, no. I suppose you wouldn’t find that funny.” He amended at their expressions. 

“How much were you paid?” Alistair asked. “I’d like to know how much we’re worth to Loghain.” 

“What, for point of pride?” Chantal asked in shock. Alistair shrugged. 

“ _ I  _ wasn’t paid anything. The Crows however were paid handsomely, or so I was told. Being a crow is not for the ambitious.” 

“Then why are you one?” Chantal asked in irritation. The elf quirked an eyebrow.

“Why are you a mage? I had the same lack of choice you did, I suppose. I was bought by the Crows, young, and at a bargain I was told! But don’t let my sad story compel you one way or another, the Crows aren’t all that bad. They keep one supplied in wine, women, or men if that’s your fancy. The severance package could use some work. If you were considering joining, I’d advise against it.” 

“Thanks, I’ll take that under advisement.” Chantal shook her head in disbelief and the elf beamed up at her. 

“You seem like a bright girl. I’m sure you’ve other options if this Grey Warden business does not work out, no?” He had the audacity to wink and Leliana  _ giggled _ . Color crept up even Alistair’s cheeks. 

“Why are you telling us all of this?” Chantal’s heart was racing, again, but she didn’t know why. The elf’s face very suddenly became serious and he fixed his eyes levelly on hers. 

“Why not? I wasn’t paid for silence. I’ve no loyalty to Loghain and I’ve failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works.” Slowly, he lifted himself into a sitting position off the ground, cradling his bruised ribs. That, Chantal thought proudly, was her doing. It had been a damn fine spell that he hadn’t quite dodged.

“If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. The thing is, I like living. You, obviously, are the sort to give them pause. So… let me serve you instead.” 

Chantal had not been expecting that. She felt Alistair’s gaze swing back to her, but she didn’t move. She maintained her steady eye contact with the elf. “Can I expect the same amount of loyalty Loghain and the Crows got?” She asked. “Because I’ve got enough problems, I assure you.”    
“I happen to be a very loyal person! Up until the point someone expects me to die for failing.” He qualified. 

“What’s to stop him from finishing the job later?” Alistair asked. 

“The only way out of the Crows is to sign up with someone they can’t touch. Even if I killed you now, they might just kill me on principle for failing the first time. I’d rather take my chances with you.” 

There was something in his eyes, hidden under layers she couldn’t peel away. But she could see flashes of it, enough to believe… he could be sincere. Maybe. 

“You must think we’re royally stupid.” Alistair said under his breath. Zevran grinned again, not looking at Alistair, not tearing his gaze from hers. 

“Perhaps. But I think  _ you _ are royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous.” 

All of the blood that had been pounding in her head rushed to her cheeks instantaneously. Zevran laughed. “Not that I’d expect you to respond to simple flattery, but there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly goddess.” 

“Why would we even want you?” She sputtered, trying to ignore the blush coloring her face. 

“Why?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth, to picking locks! I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty if you prefer. Warm your bed?” 

He shot a quick, pointed glance to Alistair “Fend off unwanted suitors? No?” 

She caved and hid her face in her hands. Morrigan made a sound of utter contempt and there was a vein pulsing dangerously at Alistair’s temple. Leliana would not stop giggling. 

“Before or after he stabs you in the back?” Sten asked. 

“I would do no such thing! You have won, my Warden, fair and square.” He promised sincerely. “So what will it be? I’ll even shine armor. You won’t find a better deal, promise!” 

Chantal peaked through her fingers, staring into those dark eyes again. She saw that flash once more, quickly covered up. 

“Fine.” She stated, dropping her hands to her robes and smoothing them. “We accept your offer.” 

“What??” Alistair exclaimed. “You’re taking the assassin with us now? Does that  _ really _ seem like a good idea?” 

“Maybe not, but it is right up our alley.” Chantal raised her eyes to Alistair’s. “I think he’s telling the truth.” 

“If there’s a sign we’re desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.” Alistair sighed. 

“A fine plan, but I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on.” Morrigan muttered.

“Excellent advice!” The elf pushed himself up off the ground, standing in front of Chantal. He was a head taller than her, but he swept himself into a fancy bow almost immediately. Chantal almost missed how he favored the bruised ribs. “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you until such a time as you choose to release me from it.” 

He took one of her hands quickly, tugging it up to his lips and carelessly brushing his lips over her knuckles. “I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear.” 

He looked up, caught sight of the pink reemerging with a vengeance on her face and chuckled. “My, what a pretty shade you turn, my dear Warden.” 

“Chantal.” She said firmly, pulling her hand back from him and ignoring the tingling feeling on her skin from the feather touch of his lips. She could feel it the whole way up her arm like lightning. “Chantal Amell.” 

“Then you must call me Zevran.” He said immediately. “Now! Where to?” 

“We need to see to your ribs. They’re probably broken. And we’ve got a damn tree to move.” Chantal threw her thumb over her shoulder. Morrigan sighed wearily, turning to deal with the tree. Sten and Alistair followed, warily. Chantal flipped open the pouch at her waist, pulling out a red elfroot potion. “You’re lucky we didn’t kill you.” 

Trout barked in affirmation, wagging his stub of a tail. 

“Ah, well you know what they say.” Zevran said with an elegant roll of his shoulders. 

“I don’t know what they say.” She replied irritably, taking out a wrapped poultice as well. 

“Any fight you can walk away from is a good one.” Zevran winked. “I find I agree, happily enough.” 


	5. Never Go Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some children can never return home again.

Horror. That was the only word she had left. Everything inside her was gone, scraped raw, leaving an empty shell full of mind-numbing horror as she wandered silently through the place she once called home. Her bed, made with the neat corners just like she’d been taught, survived the carnage remarkably intact. She slept there in the apprentice quarters her entire life, just below the third window in the room, a tiny cot for a small girl. 

Most of the other beds were overturned, but not hers. As if the demons, the blood mages, found no point in ruining an empty space. It was even untouched by the evidence of combat, of torture and agony. There were no bloodstains, no char marks, no slime or sulfur.

Yet, still, it was the most frightening thing in the room. Chantal stood like a ghost, staring at the cot and biting her nails down to the quick. The mages, the ones that hadn’t been slaughtered brutally, were safe. No thanks to the templars that she’d been taught would protect her, if they needed to. They hadn’t protected any of the children. 

“Chantal?” Wynne asked mildly. Wynne, Wynne who had told her bedtime stories when she’d been frightened of the darkness. Wynne, the last friendly face she saw before her harrowing. Wynne, survivor of Ostagar. Wynne, the closest thing to a mother she could picture. 

“I can’t ever come home.” Not now. Not after this. A part of her had believed, somehow, she’d finish her mission, stop the blight, and if she survived… well, she could be forgiven. She could return to the tower, to the only family she’d ever had. 

“No.” Wynne replied sadly, taking in the devastation around them. “No, I don’t believe you can. But that isn’t always a bad thing, child.” 

Even if they took her back, she’d seen the tower for what it was. A place to lock mages up as a sacrifice when the demons took one of them. She had been expendable, her entire life, and she hadn’t known. 

Outside, a bird flew past the window. Chantal remembered hours spent gazing out that window, watching the birds fly over the lake, the boats dotting its surface. She’d been outside now, as free as those birds flapping over the water. 

The answer came to her like a strike of lightning.

She cornered Morrigan before they got into the boat, tugging her away from the dock. Morrigan’s yellow eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Help me.” Chantal pleaded, the words jumbled in her mind, stuck on the tip of her tongue. “Morrigan, please.” 

“Be still, you are shaking.” Morrigan frowned. “‘Twas a shock, I know. Although how you can still desire…” 

“Don’t let them take me back.” Chantal begged, closing her hand over Morrigan’s. She could feel the pulse of magic under her skin, under Morrigan’s. “Give me the key to slip the cage if I need to. Let me turn into a bird so I can fly far away. Please, Morrigan. Please.” 

Morrigan nearly refused, she could see the answer forming on her lips. Chantal shot a panicked look up at the tower looming over them. “They left them to die! My friends, Morrigan. Surana, Mollen, Bell… they’re all dead and they  _ left _ them there.” 

Morrigan’s face turned to stone and she nodded, once. Chantal felt her knees go weak. “Thank you. Thank you.” Chantal whispered. 

“Do not thank me yet.” Morrigan advised. “I have never taught another. I have no aptitude for instruction.” 

Regardless, Chantal threw her arms around the other woman’s neck. Slowly, hesitantly, Morrigan laid a hand on Chantal’s lower back. “Do calm down.” She advised. “If you are emotionally compromised, I fear Alistair will steer us into the lake.” 

 

“You have been tense, my dear warden.” Zevran remarked, sharpening his blade as the two of them kept watch. The tower still loomed, too close, on the horizon. “It must have been difficult to see your home in such a state.” 

“That’s not my home.” Chantal answered, pulling her knees closer to her chin. “Not anymore.” 

Zevran nodded, as if he understood perfectly what she had said. With a deft twist of his wrist, he stabbed the blade down into the log they shared. Trout looked up with a whine at the noise, cocking his head to the side. “Come, turn around and allow me.” 

“Allow you to what?” Chantal asked, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. 

“I am going to rub your shoulders.” Zevran declared. “The least I could do, yes? You rescue me from a demon, I help ease your tension.” 

“Leliana told me if you offered a massage, I was supposed to tell you no. Immediately.” Chantal eyed the elf, with his golden glinting eyes and his sinfully wicked smile, from the corner of her eye. Zevran sighed. 

“Someday, lovely warden, I will offer you a massage. When I do, you shall be very tempted to take me up on it, I think! But, alas, not tonight. I will be as proper as a Chantry mother.” Zevran promised seriously. “Turn around before I change my mind.” 

Slowly, still not entirely sure of herself, Chantal angled herself away. Zevran straddled the log, stretching and cracking his slender fingers before laying them over her shoulders. His touch was warm, reassuring. He waited, she suspected so that she had plenty of time to object, before he lightly pressed his thumbs into her shoulders through her robes. 

“There, not so bad is it?” He asked, rubbing a light circle. “Tell me if you wish me to stop.” 

She made a small noise of agreement in the back of her throat, moving her hair so it spilled over the front of her shoulder instead. Without his intense gaze on her, she felt… more at ease. “Zev… can I ask… did they really hurt you? The Crows?” 

“How else was I to learn to resist torture?” Zevran asked playfully. His fingers dug more firmly into her flesh. “And you were locked in a magic tower throughout your childhood?” 

“Yes.” She answered simply. 

“Did you dance naked at the top in the moonlight? I have always heard rumors, and I admit to being curious.” 

“No!” Chantal protested with a snort of laughter. “Or if there were, I was not invited.” 

“A pity.” Zevran sighed. “One more boyhood fantasy dashed upon the rocks.” 

His fingers, talented and dextrous, found a knot in her shoulders. Slowly, gently, he worked the muscles with a driven focus. Chantal sighed in contentment, relaxing by degrees under his hands. “I’m sorry they hurt you.” She whispered, peering over her shoulder, through her thick dark hair. 

His fingers stilled for only a moment, thoughtful. “And yet, you tried to save me.” 

“Of course I did. It was wrong, they shouldn’t…” Chantal sputtered, indignant. Zevran chuckled from behind her and his fingers brushed the back of her neck as he lifted some more of her hair gently away. She felt his touch like electricity down her spine. 

“And they should never have locked you away.” He breathed gently against her ear. “But it is over, for both of us.” 

Yes, Chantal thought with a flash of iron determination. It was. 


	6. We're All Dying (but Not Yet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal Amell learns what happens to Grey Wardens and faces life as a dead woman walking.

Chantal Amell looked at her pale, long fingers. Calloused from her staff, nails broken and dirty, covered in scabs and scrapes from crawling through the deep roads. These, she thought helplessly, were the hands of a dead woman. Her face, caught in shimmering reflections of King Bhelen’s palace, was the face of a ghost. Gaunt, hair lank and matted. 

They found the anvil, they destroyed it, they crowned a king, but still she was dying. And when the taint finally turned her blood black and drove her mad, she’d be sent to die in the darkness. Or worse, become a mother to monsters that she fed from her own distorted, nightmarish flesh. 

Alistair stared back at her just as grimly as she stared at him before he finally reached out and took her hands gently in his much larger ones. “Talk to me.” He pleaded earnestly. 

She didn’t want to talk, she just wanted to see the sky above her again. She wanted to live, Maker she wanted to  _ live _ . She never wanted to descend into the darkness again, she didn’t want to fall into the hellish abyss. 

“Don’t let them send me in there again.” Her voice warbled, bordered on the edge of a crazed sob. “I don’t want to be a monster, please Ali…” 

“We won’t go.” He said quietly, pulling her to his chest. “We won’t go, Chantal, I promise.” 

“I don’t want to die.” She cracked, the tears spilling salty down Alistair’s broad chest. 

“Everyone is dying, Chantal. We’re just… winning the race.” He finished lamely, squeezing her tight. “It’ll be alright. I’m with you.” 

 

Wynne said dying felt like slipping into a hot bath. But then, she’d been rescued. Shale wasn’t sure if what she’d done was actually dying, and if it was, she couldn’t remember either way. Leliana claimed they’d walk with the Maker when they died. 

If that was true, Chantal had some choice words for the Maker when she met him. She had a whole list of things in this world that needed his attention, and what kind of God was he to ignore the world he had created? 

“Why worry about death, my sweet Warden?” Zevran purred in his rich velvet voice. “You are still so very much alive, yes?” 

She didn’t feel alive. She thought she’d already died in the Deep Roads with Oghren’s wife, with the anvil, with all her hopes and dreams. She had no past, it was fitting she have no future as well. She felt like an empty vase, moonlight shining through her translucent skin. 

A corpse from a grave. 

She didn’t feel alive again until… 

 

“Did you hear that?” Alistair whispered. Chantal rubbed her splitting head. She could hear the Archdemon’s roar reverberating down her spine still, as if calling her deep to the center of Thedas, beckoning her to die gruesomely among the horde. 

“Hear what?” She asked stupidly, grunting with the effort to even force the words out of her mouth. 

She never saw the Darkspawn coming. If not for Leliana, she would have died right where she sat on her bedroll. As it was, the arrow piercing the creature caused it to topple nearly on top of her and she barely rolled to avoid it. 

Then sparks flew from her fingertips in cold fury, and she joined the fray with staff in hand, raining lightning down on the creatures. 

The Archdemon thought her too weak to withstand the storm, but for a fleeting moment Chantal fought the urge to giggle madly. The darkspawn didn’t know, as the wind lashed her hair from her face, that she was no mere girl. She was a storm with lightning in her blood and thunder in her bones. And when she shouted and brought her staff down into the earth, the flare from her electricity lit the whole camp as if it were noon. And it was nearly enough to make her forget that she was a dead woman walking as the lightning arched wildly from target to target. 

Alistair looked at her in awe as the last of the darkspawn dropped. “That, that is why you’re in charge. Maker’s breath.” He whistled low in his throat, admiring the carnage surrounding her. 

“I’ve either pissed myself or made another kind of mess in my pants.” Oghren grunted, sweeping his eyes across her. Wynne tutted in abject disapproval, shooting him a fierce scolding glare. 

“Is everyone alright?” Chantal asked, stepping away from the last smoking corpse. 

A ripple of affirmations soared across the camp, from Bodhan to Sten, but one distinct voice was missing, and it made her heart clench with icy fear as she spun around. 

He was uncharacteristically silent, his face darkly handsome and ravenous as he stared at her. She’d never seen such naked hunger on a man’s face before, never bore the weight of it all alone. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, they were all taking stock  of damages and repairs, but Zevran didn’t move. One of his daggers dripped darkspawn blood in a steady stream and his eyes burned. 

Her body remembered it was alive with a mad rush. Blood flushed to every inch of her pale skin, pooled in places she didn’t have words for. “Z...Zev?” She asked cautiously, his name a breathy whisper that seemed to inflame the desire there more than extinguish it. 

“You are a breathtaking.” He said softly. “Perhaps the most exquisite creature that has ever walked this world, my dear warden. My Chantal.” 

Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to hear him say her name again. She wanted him to whisper it in her ear, moan it with wild abandon, pant it over and over again as he trailed his deft hands over her skin. 

“Oh! Am I interrupting?” Leliana asked sweetly at Chantal’s elbow. “Wynne wants to give you a much less pleasant once over to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.” 

The moment should have broken, but even as she turned, Zevran stared after her with longing written on every inch of his body. 

 

In the morning, she hooked her arm with Leliana and tipped her head closer to the redhead’s. Leliana leaned in, a conspiratorial smirk on her clever lips. “If I wanted to seduce someone…” She began. 

Leliana giggled. “You have already seduced him, trust me. A man does not look like that at a woman he has not pictured in several naughty situations.”  

Chantal blushed to the very roots of her hair but didn’t look over her shoulder. “I don’t know what to do.” She admitted furiously. “Help me.” 

Leliana’s smile turned sweet, sisterly. “There is no rush. If you are not ready...” 

“I want him.” Chantal gritted between her teeth. She didn’t know what she wanted, exactly, but her body was fairly certain that if she took his clothes off she’d figure it out. She knew the mechanics, anyway, and… 

“Very well.” Leliana sighed theatrically and cozied up closer to her side. “Now, all you must do is give him an opportunity. He is very skilled, he will know what to do.” 

“How do you know?” Chantal tried to keep the jealous edge out of her voice. Leliana giggled even louder. 

“You are darling!” Leliana cooed, kissing her cheekbone. “No, I have no personal experience. But I can tell these things. He will be the best first you could possibly hope to have.” 

Perhaps, Chantal thought glumly, he would be her last. Still, she blushed as she thought of that feral hunger underneath his skin. She might not mind that much if he was her only. She bit her lip and looked up at Leliana through her eyelashes. “You’ll help me?”

“Of course I will!” Leliana declared. “I shall take it as my sacred duty.” 

Chantal giggled as well, then giggled even louder as Alistair began to complain from behind them. “What are they going on about? It’s making me nervous.” 

“I hope it is something naughty, yes?” Zevran claimed brightly. “And I hope they ask me to join in.” 

Chantal Amell was dying, but she wasn’t dead yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT incoming! Most likely next chapter.


	7. How to Keep the Birds Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran is more than thrilled to put his skills to use. Shale approves for a rather bizarre reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NSFW at all!) Explicit sexual content. First times/loss of virginity.

She trusted Leliana explicitly. That was probably the only reason she agreed to her harebrained ploy anyway. Chantal had first watch with Morrigan. When they were relieved by Leliana and Zevran, Morrigan retreated to the farthest edge of the camp, as she did every night. Everyone else was dead asleep. 

“Well, goodnight then!” She felt awkward and nervous, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Leliana had Trout’s head in her lap and was cooing to him, scratching him behind the ears just the way he liked. “C’mon Trout.” 

Trout whined, lifting his nose towards Leliana. “Let him stay! He is such a handsome puppy, yes?” Leliana continued on naturally. As if it hadn’t been rehearsed six or seven times during their march to Redcliffe. They were halfway there and Chantal had finally decided waiting for a real bed wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. 

Zevran didn’t know it yet, but if all proceeded as planned he would not be taking his watch tonight. “Ah, to think I would someday be jealous of a mabari.” Zevran sighed, leaning back against the tree trunk he stood beside. “Fawned over by two beautiful women? You have it made, my friend.” 

Trout barked as if in agreement, wagging his tail. Leliana giggled. “Fine, but I expect you to help keep watch, Ser Trout.” Chantal huffed, placing her hands on her slim hips. Trout barked again in delight and Chantal smiled, affectionately, scratching him behind the ear before trudging off to her tent. Set up, unusually, almost as far from the others as Morrigan’s. It had drawn some comments from Alistair, but she didn’t believe he’d guessed her true purpose. 

She entered her own tent and lit the lantern with fumbling fingers. A stray spark drifted perilously close to the canvas and she slapped it out with an oath. What in the Maker’s name was she doing? Wynne would be devastated when she found out she’d succumbed to these… urges and invited the lewd assassin back to her bedroll. 

There was still time to change her mind, all she needed to do was… 

“Oh! Chantal…” Leliana tutted loudly from her post. “I was admiring her ring and she left it here. Would you be a dear and return it to her?” 

Chantal clasped her bare finger nervously. It was the ring Enchanter Irving gave her the day she passed her harrowing. She’d worn it religiously since, her last link to the person she was before. 

“For you, my lovely little bard, of course!” Zevran declared. 

Chantal flushed. How could she be so foolish! Zevran flirted shamelessly with everyone, even Wynne. She was hold enough to be his grandmother, for Andraste’s sake! She should turn right around, march out into camp, meet Zevran halfway and reclaim her ring. She would just make Leliana see that she had changed her mind…

Against her will, her mind conjured the image of Zevran staring at her with such naked appreciation, his blades unsheathed. Looking like the very image of an ancient elven god, powerful and dangerous and….

“Warden!” Zevran called cheerfully. “Are you indecent? I’ve come to return your missing jewelry, but if you are undressed I can certainly come in regardless.” 

“Come in!” She squeaked, flushing even brighter as the flap of her tent twitched open and Zevran ducked through. Chantal was kneeling on her bedroll, one hand pressed to her stomach to quell her rising nerves, the other pressed in a closed fist to her mouth. Zevran feigned disappointment.

“Ah, decent it is. Such a pity.” He sighed, crouching low in an elegant bow and holding out her ring in the center of his palm. “This ring does your beauty no justice, mi belleza. You should be decked in sapphires and rubies.” 

“Impractical for fighting darkspawn.” Chantal plucked the ring from his hand, unable to prevent the pads of her fingers brushing against his warm, calloused palm. In the enclosed space, she could smell him. Something foreign and spicy that made her mouth water, leather, the clean tang of sweat and something underneath that was completely and uniquely Zevran. 

As if he noticed the effect he had on her, he captured her fingers lightly in his and brought them to his lips, lightly brushing against them in something that was not nearly chaste enough to appease Wynne. It sent all the blood in her brain rushing downwards. 

“I had hoped to see you with your hair down.” He said forlornly. “I entertain such pleasant thoughts of your hair loose, ruffled.” 

She reached her other hand towards one of the plaits hanging down by her ear, it’s twin on the other side dangling too close to the hand captured by his. Slowly, she tugged the tie loose, drew her free fingers through it to cast the waves free of their braid. There was a spark in Zevran’s eyes that was quickly becoming an inferno. Chantal could hardly believe she had created it, even though conjuring flame was as mindless to her as breathing. 

“Have you set out to tempt me, Warden? It is cruel to do so and send me back out into the night.” Zevran warned wolfishly. Her fingers, still at his lips, received a gentle nip from his white teeth. 

“Yes.” She admitted with a blush. “I… I thought you could show me that Antivan massage you were talking about?” 

Her voice sounded far too high for her ears, but Zevran’s eyes continued to grow darker as he leaned in, his free hand tugging the other tie gently from her braided hair, ruffling that side as well until it matched the other. Slowly, his hand ran through her dark waves, gentle and soothing. 

“Have you ever been kissed, pequeña bruja?” He murmured, letting his thumb drift down over her cheekbone, moving towards the object of his discussion. Helplessly, she let her tongue dart out to wet them. His eyes fixed on the little gesture like a falcon on a rabbit. 

“No.” She admitted. “No, I…I haven’t done anything. But I want to. I’m…” She was dying. “ I don’t want to die a virgin.” 

Zevran laughed, the sound breathless and as warm as the ale Oghren and Wynne drank. “That, little witch, would be a tragedy. You should be given every ounce of pleasure your body can crave. I would be honored, my warden, to show you the ways of the flesh.” 

She felt brave and reckless, reaching out to lay her free hand on his shoulder. She had to be imagining it, but he felt as if he was on fire. The heat was unbearable and made her knees weak. 

Swooning, the romance novels called it. Chantal Amell, slayer of darkspawn, prodigal daughter of the circle, one of the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, was  _ swooning _ . 

She let her hand drift down his shoulder, over his bicep. She’d seen him shirtless before. Zevran lacked any modesty at all and bathing in the wilderness was often a communal experience. She had never allowed the luxury of allowing herself to stare unabashedly like she wanted to. 

“Turn around.” He instructed gently, letting go of her hand and pulling away from her roaming fingers. Chantal fought the urge to stamp her foot like a child denied. She  _ didn’t _ want to turn around, she wanted to see him, wanted to…

He laughed, reading her thoughts plainly in her face. “I thought to start with that Antivan massage I offered, the one that made you blush so deliciously, yes?” The reminder of their innuendo laden conversation made her face feel hot. “The one I told you that you would beg for, someday. I do so love being right. But if you feel as if you are impatient...”

She turned abruptly, feeling outmaneuvered and very much caught out. Almost immediately, Zevran’s arms circled her waist and pulled her flush against his chest. The palms of his hands rested just above the waistband of her breeches, a teasing light pressure that made her want to arch into him. His breath was on her ear, his words causing more dark heat to pool in her core. “I want to take your shirt off, my dear Warden. I want to lay you out on your bedroll and touch every inch of your skin. I want to make you forget all of your cares, my little bird. Si?” 

The noise she made was an obvious whimper, one that made him laugh again as he began to brush his lips lightly down the curve of her ear, the line of her jaw. “Zev…” His name in her mouth was a broken plea.

He moaned against her neck and Chantal melted. He nudged her slowly towards the bed roll, laying her flat on her back. Then his hands were sliding up under her linen shirt, calloused palms on the flushed skin of her stomach and she shuddered. 

“Do not be nervous.” He cooed, fingers caressing her ribs as he inched the shirt higher and higher. 

“I’m not.” She bit her lip, clutching at her bedroll with her hands. “I just… I don’t know what to do.” With her hands, her face, the tingly feeling spreading wherever his fingers traced patterns. 

“Lift yourself up a bit.” Zevran instructed. “Let me get rid of this exquisite wrapping, hm? I wish to behold the more beautiful woman beneath.” 

She laughed, she couldn’t help herself. The exquisite wrapping he referred to was nothing more than a thin linen shirt, pinched from the pack of a trio of bandits that had gotten in her way. She was pretty sure it had been a man’s shirt, perhaps a boy’s, because it was far too long. “This shirt is nothing near exquisite.” She murmured as she arched beneath him, allowed him to pull the shirt free of her skin, over her head. 

“It is not any longer.” He said simply, tossing it to the side. “It is only exquisite when it adorns you.” 

She blushed so vividly pink that he chuckled breathlessly again, his hands tracing the bandeau strap across her ribs, but making no move to undo it. Instead, he swiped her hair free of her shoulders and leaned down over her “Now, allow me to show you the skills I have learned that I am only too happy to put at your disposal.” 

He leaned in closer, his weight pressing down on her gently, his breath hot at her ear again. She could feel his smirk. “Unless dear Leliana is expecting me back, no?” 

“She’s not.” Chantal admitted breathlessly. 

She felt his teeth nip at the curve of her ear and the sensation made her gasp, clutch the bedroll tighter. “Little minx.” He growled approvingly.

Then his lips were poised above hers, his breath hot against her mouth. A part of her wanted the moment, an endless swell of anticipation as sweet as wine, to last forever. Just her and Zevran, suspended in a single second of bliss, untouched by blight, lonely childhoods, pain, and sadness. 

Then he brought his lips to her and she immediately changed her mind. Kissing Zevran, that’s what she wanted to last forever. Her arms moved on their own, wrapping around his neck as he pressed against her demandingly. She opened her mouth under his assault, flying a white flag of surrender as his talented, wicked tongue tangled with hers. She felt clumsy in comparison, but Zevran moaned into her mouth as she tentatively touched his tongue with hers. 

She tried to follow him as he pulled back, his eyes dark with lust. She chased his lips with a whimper, allowing her fingers to tangle in his golden hair. “Me has embrujado.” He whispered, nipping lightly at her bottom lip. “Cuerpo y alma.” 

She had no idea what he was saying, but she wasn’t quite sure she wanted him to stop either. Her hands tugged weakly at the shirt around his neck, tugging it with growing frustration. She wanted  to feel his warm velvet heat against her skin, and his damn shirt… 

It was gone in a flash, as if she’d magicked it away, and then his chest was against hers again, sliding smoothly against her skin as his strong arm tugged her close to him, capturing her lips in another devastating kiss that left her battered, breathless, and positively keening for more. 

Something inside her woke up, something as primal as the mana lurking beneath her skin. Something that knew exactly what to do with all that smooth skin, soft and hard sinewy muscle underneath. Zevran, lean compact, but strong enough to easily slam his daggers through the weak point in an enemy’s armor. 

Her hands traveled over the planes of his chest, down his arms, nails scratching lightly down his back which caused him to hiss and nip at her lower lip again. She arched up into him, touching her hips to his, feeling something hard and growing under his breeches, something to match the molten heat inside her. 

She didn’t realize he’d managed to unlace her simple bustier until his free hand cradled one of her breasts and she jerked back with a mewl of surprise when his calloused thumb rubbed over the hard point of her nipple. 

He smirked, utterly satisfied with himself as she arched again off the bedroll, pressing her chest more firmly into his hands. Leaning back as she was, she could get a better look at him, the tan skin peppered with thin white scars that she felt under her roaming hands, the black ink spanning across his rippling muscles, accentuating and highlighting them. 

He thought she was breathtaking? Maker’s breath,  _ he  _ was a work of art. She’d heard stories of Elven gods who once, supposedly, prowled Thedas. He was a perfect model of what they should have looked like, proud and wild. 

Her thumb drifted over a longer scar and she felt offended that anyone dared mar a body so exquisite. Then he gently pinched her nipple and the moan that fell from her mouth was enough to make her blush. 

“So sensitive, little temptress.” He teased, turning his attention to the neglected breast. He brought his wicked mouth down to that one, engulfing her sensitive nipple in his mouth and Maker, nobody ever said it felt  _ this _ good. She whimpered, rocking her hips against the strong length of his thigh. 

If she thought he’d let her off easy, she was wrong. He alternated between gentle licks, nips, caresses, pinches, until she was canting his name, begging him to stop, begging him to never stop. When she thought she was going to start screaming, and Maker help her if she started because she didn’t think she’d be able to stop, one of his clever hands trailed a path down to her breeches and slipped between her skin and the thin cotton. 

She rose into him like the ocean to the shore and he groaned as he found her scalding hot, wet and needy. Then he touched that little nub of pleasure, the one she’d stroked while thinking of him more times than she could count in her little tent, but it hadn’t felt like that. His touch felt like lightning, like her own magic at his fingertips. She cried out as he circled her pearl slowly, clutching his shoulders like he was a rock in a storm. 

“Look at me.” Zevran commanded, using her other hand to tip her chin back until she met his eyes. She could see herself reflected back, lips kiss swollen and face flushed, dark hair a halo around her head. “I want you to look at me, Chantal, while I pleasure you. Can you do that?” 

Anything, anything he wanted. Anything he asked. As long as he never stopped. He’d removed his finger, pulled down her breeches in one smooth motion. Then his calloused fingers, rough and insistent, were teasing her, slipping into her tight channel.

He was going to kill her. She wasn’t sure if this was his assassination plan the whole time, but if it was, Chantal couldn’t find it in herself to complain. Still, she kept her eyes on his face as he strummed her clit, pushing her closer to the abyss.

The fall was nothing like she’d ever felt, a free fall off a cliff, her scream captured by his mouth as he stroked her through the first shattering orgasm until she collapsed, clinging onto him like the sole survivor of a shipwreck. “Zevran, Zevran…” She moaned. 

“I suspect you are as hedonistic as me, Chantal.” He purred, slowly slicking his fingers into her fluttering sheath. “Perhaps more so! You strike me as a prodigy.” 

The fire inside her had dimmed, but it certainly hadn’t abated. He was undoing the laces of his breeches with his other hand. He removed his fingers from her only long enough to tug them and his boots free before crawling back between her thighs, licking her juices from his fingers with a relish. 

His manhood bobbed proudly, larger than she thought it would be, curved with a gleaming drop of leaking fluid at the tip. A small voice inside her reminded her, loudly, that she hadn’t actually done this before.

“Will it hurt?” She asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. No matter what, she’d been stabbed my a damn darkspawn sword not two weeks ago, and it couldn’t be that bad.

“It depends, my dear, on how you are made.” Zevran took his cock in his hand, slowly sliding it up and down her cleft, gathering her moisture and tickling her swollen clit. “Some women hardly feel a thing. Some feel a bit more. It helps if you are adequately prepared.” 

“Am I?” Chantal asked breathlessly as the fire began to roar into an inferno. She felt sparks at her fingertips and had to reign her turbulent mana back in. Zevran grinned. 

“More than ready, I think.” He challenged. “You are a natural.” 

Before she could say another word, his erect manhood was sliding home inside her, spreading her obscenely open, pulsing with his heartbeat in the deepest core of herself. She waited for pain, for the feel of something ripping, but all she felt instead was a fluttering of unused muscles, a strong urge to clutch down on the intruder and…

Zevran moved inside her and her eyes rolled up in her head, arching her back to press every inch of bare flesh against his. “Again.” She demanded, bringing his lips back to hers. 

His grin against her lips tasted absolutely sinful. “As you wish, Chantal.” 

 

She’d heard the term “well-fucked” before, but had no idea what it meant. She understood in the morning when every inch of her felt like she’d fallen down a cliff, her sore muscles protesting the smallest movement, encouraging her to stay right where she was. 

She felt warm, glowing in the weak light pouring through the tent canvas. Zevran’s chest under her cheek, his hot breath in her hair. He groaned as she moved sleepily towards the tent flap. 

“Mi amor.” He croaked sleepily, rubbing his eyes blearily, “must we leave so soon?” 

They needed to get to Redcliffe. Chantal smiled down at Zevran. “Yes, but… if you want we can do this again.” 

“Again?” He chuckled. “Little minx. As if I was done with you yet.” 

The promise made her knees weak. What more could there possibly be to learn? He’d had her so many times, spilled inside her twice, kissed every inch of her skin and licked their combined fluids from the space between her legs. 

A part of her, a wicked and sinful part she was sure, smirked in delight. “I wasn’t done with you either.” Chantal blushed as the boldness tripped from her tongue. 

Zevran fully opened his dark eyes, fixed them on her with an unfathomable expression. “I would wait to see what the rest of our traveling companions think of that first, si? I do not imagine Alistair or Morrigan will be pleased. We were not… quiet, last night.” 

Chantal blushed even more furiously, tugging her wrinkled shirt over her head. “So?” She asked, dropping her eyes to the ground. “I don’t care what they think. I want…  I want to do this again. I like you, you make me laugh, and last night…” She trailed off. 

It had been the best night of her life, but she was afraid to say so. Afraid admitting it would break the spell. “I had fun, didn’t you? Leliana said it was fine if we both had fun and we both wanted to.” 

“I feel as if I owe Leliana a bottle of wine.” Zevran levered himself up, bare chested and glorious in her tent. “My warden, I continue to be your man, as long as you desire me.” 

“Good.” Chantal nodded in satisfaction, tugging her breeches up her thighs. “Now, I need to go wash up.” 

 

She stepped out into the bright light recklessly, boldly. Immediately, everyone turned to gawk. Chantal wondered, momentarily, if she had forgotten to put a shirt on after all, but no, she was dressed. 

“Maker’s breath, did you even get any sleep?” Alistair asked in wonder.

“We certainly did not.” Morrigan snapped. 

“Thought the grey warden stamina was a myth. Guess I was… myth-taken.” Oghren chortled into his ale. Wynne continued to glare at her in stony silence.

“Was this really the time, child?” She asked reprovingly. 

Chantal tossed her lose hair back over her shoulder, placed her hands on her hips, and returned Wynne’s glare levely. 

“I am not a child.” Chantal stated firmly. 

“Certainly not any longer by the sounds of it.” Leliana giggled. 

Wynne crossed her own arms over her chest and continued to stare Chantal down. “You have a quest, a purpose, and…” 

“I’m doing it!” Chantal protested. “I’m doing everything anyone  _ ever _ asked of me, and I’m also going to continue to do whatever I like in the privacy of my own tent. So if anyone else has anything to say, I suggest they sod off.” 

Sten grunted and shook his head, but it was Shale the had the last word. 

“I thought the sounds the painted elf and the warden made were effective at keeping away birds.” Shale nodded in satisfaction. “I approve.” 


	8. How to Manage Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redcliffe, Alistair, Jowan, and basically everything gets on Chantal's nerves. 
> 
> Luckily, there's a crow in her bed who doesn't mind a bit of theft and murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (NSFW!! Pure smut with a hint of feelings at the end)

It wasn’t the boy’s fault, but Connor was the one sobbing and clinging onto his mother for dear life, whimpering that he was sorry, pleading for her forgiveness. If he had been schooled properly, if he had been taught to embrace what he’d been born instead of… 

But, Chantal thought morosely, could you really blame the Arlessa for trying to spare him the Tower? Had her mother tried to prevent her from being taken? Chantal couldn’t remember, didn’t know if anyone ever loved her enough to attempt to save her. 

Alistair retreated, leaving Redcliffe in her hands. He turned back into the frightened, lonely boy hiding in the stables under the Arlessa’s withering disapproval. She tried not to blame him, really, but nobody let her shrivel up into the little girl she used to be in the circle, did they? If she did, Maker knew what would happen to the lot of them. 

And sweet Andraste, did she want to be the girl in the circle again when she found herself outside Jowan’s cell. He looked horrid as she felt, pale with dark hair lank and greasy against his skin. They’d decided to hold him until the Arl woke up, and when the Arl woke up, one of two things would happen.

They’d kill the boy who used to crawl into her bed at night when the air was so cold they could see their breaths. Or… they’d make him tranquil, nothing more than a hollow shell where once a person stood. He’d remember her, but he wouldn’t care. 

“You must hate me.” Jowan whispered. “Not that it matters. Look at you, the mighty Grey Warden. Free, safe.” He frowned bitterly, features twisted with jealousy. 

“I loved you.” She admitted, her voice sounding lifeless and dead to her ears. “Like you were my brother.” 

“Your mistake then.” Jowan spat. “You should have known better than to risk loving anything, they just take it away from you. Use it.” 

“You used me!” She accused in a harsh whisper. She waited for the tears to come, but it seemed she was beyond tears. Grey Wardens didn’t cry over betrayal, apparently. 

“You’re going to let them kill me.” Jowan shrugged listlessly. “So what does it matter?” 

“You deserve to die.” Chantal gripped the bars of the cell tightly. “You poisoned a man, allowed a demon to take over a child in your charge, and then suggested  _ blood magic _ to fix it. You’re a monster! I can’t let you hurt anyone else!”

This was her fault. She helped him escape. Not Connor, not the Arlessa, not Loghain. It was her choice and Jowan’s that brought them here. And yet… 

“Did you ever love me?” She asked softly. 

His silence spoke louder than words and Chantal drew away from the bars. “They’ll make you tranquil if they don’t kill you. I’ll do it myself now, so you don’t have to… so you don’t have to live like that.”

She pulled the dagger from her belt, holding it up to the gleaming light. It belonged to Zevran, she couldn’t see it without seeing the way it looked tucked in his boot when he wandered around camp. She didn’t own one of her own, had no need for it. Until now. 

“Give it to me.” He grasped for it covetously and she shrunk back further, pulling the knife to her own chest. 

“No. I know what you’ll do.” She snarled. “I’ll kill you, but I won’t let you escape. Not again. I won’t kill anymore innocent people.” 

“They’ll kill me!” Jowan protested, eyes bulging as he reached through the bars. “Chantal, please!” 

She realized suddenly if it was a choice between an honorable death or a life as a shell, Jowan would choose life. He was too much of a coward to consider anything else. “You’re scum, Jowan.” She slipped the knife into her boot, just like Zevran did. It made her feel stronger, more grounded, like the steel could keep her straight when her bones couldn’t. 

“You’re a traitorous whore.” He growled. 

Maybe, she thought as she turned away. But she was no coward. And if it was a choice between dying as herself, being a monster, or becoming a mindless zombie, Chantal knew what she would choose. 

 

She should have foreseen Zevran waiting shirtless in the rooms she’d been given. A blind woman wouldn’t have missed the way his face lit up at the thought of a real bed. That’s where he laid, an offering draped over her pillows. His eyebrow shot up as soon as she entered. 

“I’m missing a dagger, and a little bird informed me our illustrious leader nicked it.” Zevran began playfully. “Seems bizarre, no?” 

“Morrigan needs to mind her damned business.” Chantal clambered up on the bed, immediately straddling Zevran’s hips. His smile turned indulgent and heated immediately. She reached for the knife in her boot, pulled it out in one fluid motion, and then slammed it blade first into the Arlessa’s fancy guest room headboard. Zevran didn’t flinch, but glanced up at it with mild interest. 

“Well, I assume you either did not murder anyone or had the foresight to clean the blood off.” Zevran, blessedly, seemed remarkably nonchalant about either possibility. Thank the Maker. 

Instead of offering any explanation, even a half-hearted lie, she crashed her lips against his. It was a challenge and a dare, goding him to… do something. She wasn’t entirely sure what, to be honest, but she craved the way he lost control sometimes. When he was deep within her and she rolled her hips just right and his fingers clenched tight enough to bruise or when he would suddenly pull her hair back and sink his teeth into the white skin of her throat. 

She trusted he’d figure out what she wanted. He always seemed to know, even when she didn’t. So she attacked his lips with a relish, nipping lightly at the bottom one until he moaned against her mouth and dug his fingers into her hair, pulling her back just enough for his molten eyes to take in hers. He chuckled, breathless, before lightly pulling her hair until her ear was next to his warm, swollen lips. “As you wish, Chantal.”

Before she completely understood how it happened (how in the void was he so quick? It was criminal) she was pinned beneath him, staring up at the dagger handle as Zevran ripped her tunic away. She heard the fabric tear and a distant part of her wondered how she was going to explain  _ that _ to Wynne.

The rest of her rejoiced at the feeling of his tongue, his teeth, tracing and nipping down her collarbone. She whimpered as his tongue soothed the angry red marks his teeth left behind. Her body was an instrument, and he could play it like no other, coaxing sounds from her mouth that she barely recognized. Desperate gasps when he pulled her bandeau down, revealing her hard nipples. Needy little whimpers when his tongue caught the puffy tip of one and teased it mercilessly. A mewling cry of pleasure bordering on pain when his teeth caught it. Too much, too much. Not nearly enough. 

“Zevran!” She cried, bucking up into his mouth as he repeated the sweet torture on the other breast. He looked up at her with feigned innocence. 

“Yes, my enchantress?” He purred with a laugh.

Oh  _ fuck that _ . She brought her nails to his back, let them dig into his shoulders, and summoned her lightning to her fingertips. Not much, just a spark. 

It was enough to send him cursing in that beautiful language of his, enough for the cock she could feel through his soft doeskin breeches to swell even farther. Chantal laughed in spite of herself at his reaction, the pleasure of knocking  _ Zevran _ off his game too novel to pass up. 

His eyes went from molten to inferno in a second and he twisted her around, pressing her breasts into the mattress, wrenching her head back with one fist in her hair as he pulled her own trousers down, just enough to reveal her slick heated center. 

“I’m going to pay you back for that, witch.” Zevran promised in her ear in his perfect breathy whisper. Chantal couldn’t help the moan his voice alone caused, the wetness that dripped down her thighs. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you beg me to stop.” 

Never, she thought as he slid into  her, a perfect fit. His hand smacked her bare ass and she clenched down on his cock until he joined her in moaning. Yes, she thought deliriously as he began to pound into her, so hard the whole headboard knocked against the wall loudly and she needed to release a wail of pleasure. All she could think was his name, falling from her lips in a hundred little gasps, in desperate moans as she crested one orgasm, straight into another, then his deft fingers sunk to where they were joined, circling her clit and pushing her maddeningly closer to another. 

“Again.” Zevran demanded, thrusting into her. “Again, Chantal.” 

It hurt, Maker it hurt and it was fantastic, and she was screaming his name now, trying to bury her moans into her pillow. He yanked it away from her immediately before sinking his fingers back to her clit without mercy.

She lost track of how many orgasms he pushed her to before he spent himself inside her with a strangled shout of her name. She collapsed beneath him, heartbeat pounding, mind blissfully empty. He rolled beside her onto his back, one arm thrown helplessly over his eyes as if to dim the sparks she felt sure he could see as well. He was still muttering in Antivan, little phrases she knew. Others she didn’t. Little witch, seductress, something about a heart. 

“The next time.” He finally breathed, stretching. “You do not need to steal my dagger. You can just ask nicely.” 

“I always ask nicely.” She reasoned, widening her eyes. He laughed, warm and throaty and exhausted. “But that’s not why I took your dagger.” 

He moved his arm, peered at her from beneath the tan skin. “So you did murder someone? Should I expect Alistair to burst in and start throwing accusations at me?” 

“It was for Jowan, but I didn’t kill him. He’s not worth it.” She stretched as well. “Maker, I feel better. I was so… ugh.” She shook out her dark hair. Zevran grinned, amused. 

“Frustrated?” He guessed. Chantal fought a tell-tell pink blush. “Well, I certainly hope you’re not anymore, but if you are, I will be more than willing to continue to manage your frustration in about a half-hour.” 

“A whole half-hour?” Chantal complained, propping herself up on her elbow and beginning to idly trace the ink spanning his chest, curling over his ribs. “What will I do in the meantime?” 

Zevran muttered the word minx under his breath, reaching up and wrenching the dagger free of the headboard before turning it lightly in his hand, presenting the handle to her. “Perhaps you should put this back in your boot and take the rest of your clothing off before I destroy it as well, si?” 

“It’s not mine.” Chantal protested. Zevran smiled warmly. 

“Ah, but now it is. I much prefer it on you, yes? There’s a certain swagger to your hips with a blade hidden on you. And, if you were to lose access to your magic… well, at least you will not be defenseless.” Zevran explained reasonably. Shyly, Chantal took the handle and felt the cold weight of it in her hand. She looked down at it, examining it closely. 

“Nobody has ever given me a gift.” She stated quietly. Once, she had given Jowan some gloves she knitted for him, all by herself. But nobody had ever given  _ her _ anything. It brought something rising to the surface, a tightening in her chest she couldn’t explain, but that felt pleasant nevertheless. She chanced a look through her eyelashes at Zevran.

His eyes, for a brief moment, were transparent. And she swore she saw fear. 

Then he grinned again and the expression vanished so quickly, she questioned whether it had ever been there at all. “How could you say that?” He huffed in amusement. “I give you the gift of my presence everyday.”

She laughed, tucking away the uneasy, sickly, pleasant feeling for examination. Later, when there wasn’t a real bed available and Zevran wasn’t pleasantly disheveled in hers. There’d be time to consider it then.  


	9. Learning to Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One crow for sorrow. Two for joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Fluff only, nothing NSFW!)

Chantal began watching birds after Morrigan promised to teach her the old Chasind magic. That, Morrigan informed her pointedly, was the first step. She needed to know the creature, the way it moved, the noises it made, how it hunted and how it slept. 

Chantal wanted to fly, so she watched birds. Blight scared off most of them, all except the large pitch black ones with iridescent feathers that reflected like dark pearls. She liked them, though, particularly their lively and intelligent dark eyes. “What are they called, do you know?” She asked Wynne one day as she trailed beside the older mage. 

Wynne sighed wearily, wiping her brow with her sleeve and shooting her a scolding gaze. “Chantal, this is not amusing.” 

“What isn’t?” She asked, perplexed. Wynne’s face softened almost immediately. 

“Oh, I’m… I’m sorry child. I thought you were playing a game.” Wynne admitted apologetically. “They are… Ferelden crows.” 

Chantal couldn’t help the broad grin that spread across her face. “No! Really?” 

“Yes.” Wynne slipped into teaching almost immediately, despite the slight wrinkle in her brow that showed her displeasure with the continued nighttime activities occurring between her and Zevran. “They’re quite clever. They hunt for insects, small fish, mice, but they’re also known to scavenge just about anything. Crops, food left out by peasants, grain for livestock… I even heard a story about one who fashioned a twig into a hook to poke a hole into a sack of beans.” 

“I like them.” Chantal stated decisively. 

“Of course you do.” Wynne shook her head in disapproval. “Please reassure me you’re being careful.” 

“You won’t believe me anyway.” Chantal chirped, watching one of the sleek black birds slip into the sky with a few beats of its wings. 

“Quite right.” Wynne admitted. “But, I suppose the young exist to take risks the elderly disapprove of.” 

 

“I know a rhyme about crows!” Leliana exclaimed when Chantal pointed out their beady eyes watching them from a branch above the camp. 

“Is it a naughty rhyme?” Zevran asked immediately. “In Antiva, every rhyme about crows is a naughty rhyme.” 

Leliana didn’t dignify Zevran with a response, picking up another lock of Chantal’s hair and continuing to braid it into the elaborate hairstyle she claimed to remember from Orlais. 

“You have to tell us now.” Chantal pleaded, shifting impatiently. Leliana placed a firm hand on her shoulder to keep her still with a tutting sound. 

“I will, of course I will! How did it go…” Leliana trailed off thoughtfully. “One crow, sorrow. Two for joy. Three for a girl, four for a boy. Five for silver, six means gold. Seven crows bring a secret not to be told. Eight for heaven, nine for hell. Ten to summon demons from beyond the veil.” 

“This is why you shouldn’t go around counting birds.” Alistair mumbled from in between bites of his stew. “Next thing you know you’re summoning demons.” 

“I doubt we need worry much.” Morrigan’s lazy smirk was a dead giveaway as she reclined back against a boulder. “Since counting up to ten is beyond you.” 

“I prefer the naughty rhymes.” Zevran sighed. “Alas, shall I teach you one?” 

Several chorused no’s answered him immediately and one belched yes from Oghren. Zevran looked up from his whetstone and blade, caught her eye and winked. 

One for sorrow, two for joy, Chantal thought. She beamed back brightly. 

 

The sun rose above the horizon, casting the countryside in golden hues. Chantal stood, taking deep breaths, pulling her mana as Morrigan directed. Morrigan’s voice, calm and low, instructed her to picture the crow, the way wings unfurled in the sky, the sound of their cry, and Chantal  _ could _ . She could feel the wind in her fingers like they were wings, like she could launch from the ground and…

Fear caused her to open her eyes and Morrigan bit out an oath. “Fool!” She declared impatiently. “You were so close, Warden!” 

“What if I fall?” She asked, panicked. “What if I can’t fly? What if I fall?” 

Morrigan shook her head impatiently and stalked away, muttering curses under her breath. 

Feeling miserable, Chantal slunk back into camp after her. She avoided Alistair’s grin, Wynne’s cheerful good morning, Shale’s grumbled complaining.

She couldn’t avoid Zevran’s eyes on her, like hot coals burning into her skin. She met his gaze, shot him a self-deprecating smile and shrugged. 

“You will do it next time, then.” Zevran grinned confidently. “Si?” 

Chantal was much less sure of that. 

 

When Alistair got up to take third watch, she sent him back to his bedroll with a command and a steely glare. Alistair folded without much of a fight and within seconds she heard his snoring coming from his tent. 

“You want to send me to bed too, Warden, I’ll go. Gladly.” Oghren huffed, head jerking up. 

“What’ll you do when we get to Denerim?” Chantal asked, curling her knees up to her chest. Oghren petted his beard thoughtfully. 

“Got taverns there?” He asked brightly. Chantal sighed, looking up at the stars above them. 

“I imagine so. Never been myself.” She rested her chin on her knees. 

“Ancestor’s tits, girl. You need to get out more.” 

She didn’t respond, and within moments Oghren’s snores joined Alistair’s behind her. That was the nice thing about Oghren, if you didn’t keep talking to him at night he’d certainly drop off, giving you as much peace and quiet as you wanted. 

“Why do we even keep Alistair around, mi belleza?” Zevran whispered just above her left ear. She nearly squeaked in shock, whipping her head around to stare at him as he crouched behind her. His eyes danced with laughter in the dim light of the stars and the faltering campfire. “Surely, it is not for his looks when clearly you are the most beautiful warden. Has he slept through his watch? Shall I rouse him?”

“Zev.” She sighed, trying to still her racing heart. “What are you doing? You don’t have a watch tonight.” 

“Waiting for my enchantress to grace me with her presence.” He answered smoothly, falling to the ground beside her gracefully. “Alas, she never appeared. So, I came in search of her and here we are!” 

Oghren mumbled something about nugs in his sleep, Chantal and Zevran both ignored him. 

“Sorry Zev. I just… I’m thinking about the shapeshifting. How I can’t do it.” She sighed in aggravation, curling her knees back up to her chest. “Morrigan is frustrated with me because I can’t...” 

“Morrigan is in a constant state of frustration. I have made  _ several _ suggestions of how she could manage, but she has taken me up on none of them.” Zevran grinned, tilting his head to the side. “Besides, she is wrong. You can do it, and you will.”

She imagined what it would be like to live in a world where she had Zevran’s easy confidence. She bit her lip and his thumb instantly came up to her mouth, freeing it tenderly. “Now, I have had occasion to see a fair amount of mages, but none like you. You are…” 

“Utterly irresistible. Yes, you tell me this all the time.” She chimed in, annoyed.

“True.” He admitted. “But fierce as well, and dangerous. If you wish to master forbidden magics, I can think of nothing that would stop you.” 

She flushed pink, staring down at her scuffed boots. Zevran plucked one of her hands from her knees and brought the back of it to his lips, a chaste and simple touch that she managed to feel the whole way in her knees. “But, if you wish to be alone with your thoughts, I will not intrude.” 

She nodded, unsure, torn between needing her solitude and wanting him as badly as she always did. He stood, his fingertips lingering against hers, hands suspended in the air between them. 

“What if I can’t fly?” She asked suddenly, unable to hide her fear. “What if I fall?” 

“Everyone falls, Chantal.” Zevran said seriously, squeezing her hand gently. “But, my dear Warden, what if you fly?” 

She didn’t have an answer for that beyond the leap of joyful hope in her soul, something too beautiful to put into words.

 

Nobody stirred yet, but the sun was just coming up over the horizon again. Their camp, nearly two-thirds of the way to Denerim if their internal compass could be trusted, sat on a rocky hill overlooking a ravine. It was good, sound strategy to have it at their back, made it so they only had to worry about attack from one direction. 

Chantal walked away from Oghren’s snoring form, towards the sunrise. She stood on the edge of the ravine, shifting her staff from one hand to the other, looking down into the inky darkness below. 

She could fly. She  _ could _ fly. 

She took a deep breath, pulling her mana the way Morrigan had told her. It felt odd at first, the magic under her skin rebelling as she forced it into new forms, new shapes. She heard the caw of a crow, saw them spinning through the air in her mind, the sunrise lighting their wings on fire. 

She could feel the wind in her hair, her outstretched fingers of her left hand. 

One crow for sorrow. Two for joy. 

Their bright, inquisitive eyes staring down at them from the branches above. And when she felt her fingers turn to feathers, she didn’t panic. She opened her eyes, saw the world sharpen. She could see the individual leaves on each tree clinging to the ravine below, even in the darkness. 

Chantal took a step towards the edge. Then another. Her third step was into nothing, but she didn’t fall. 

She spread her wings and she flew, black wings slicing through the air like Zevran’s blades and her spells. 

From below her, she heard Morrigan’s throaty laughter. Different in ears that weren’t her own, but were. She careened through the air, circling above the camp in a tight spiral, the mage below her shaking her head in amusement.

“See?” Morrigan drawled. “Twas not that hard, yes?” 


	10. How to Pleasure a Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal meets Isabela and experiences several firsts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so very NSFW.

Chantal gawked at the beautiful woman smirking across the table. This couldn't possibly be happening, because if it was… 

Maker, she was going straight to the void.

Wynne warned her. She had cautioned against going to the Pearl, regardless of the coin promised for clearing out the unruly patrons. Chantal had made a convincing argument that if Alistair’s armor got much more dented, there really wasn’t a point to him wearing any at all, and Wynne backed down reluctantly Now, she was staring down desire with warmth in her belly and Zevran's hand on the small of her back. Sten offered to come when they left the inn and she'd never been more happy she left both him and Wynne behind.

Maybe, just maybe, Zevran was right about her being more debauched than he himself was. His hand moved slowly up and down her spine, both reassuring weight and tinder to stoke the fire in her blood. He leaned into her, catching her ear with his lips and whispering words that pooled into her belly, turned the flames into molten heat. 

"It is as you desire, my warden." Zevran purred. "But I would not mind, even if I only got to watch." 

Maker's breath. Wynne was going to be horrified. But still… 

What would it be like to kiss a woman? Particularly one as… womanly as this pirate queen? 

Chantal could die tomorrow. For research purposes, she should know the answer to that question before facing anymore darkspawn. Besides… the thought of Zevran watching…

Zevran liked to watch her. That’s how this whole thing had started, with him constantly watching her. Intimate experience with her body hadn’t dimmed his voyeuristic tendencies. His eyes were still on her like a hook the minute she started to remove any of her clothing. He surprised her once or twice while she bathed (after she’d lingered long enough for Leliana, Wynne, and Morrgian to clear out. On purpose, of course) and took her roughly on the banks of both a stream and a lake while she was still covered in soap.

Sometimes, he begged her to touch herself at night. He’d lounge, usually naked himself, and watch her bring her nipples to attention, sink her fingers into her tight channel, circle her little knot of nerves and whimper his name until he couldn’t bear to simply watch anymore, until the spark in his eye grew into an inferno. She always felt like a goddess when he capitulated, as irresistible as he claimed she was, but… 

Isabela oozed raw sensuality in a way that Chantal longed to capture and bottle, like one of Morrigan’s more dangerous potions. Maybe, just maybe, some would rub off on her if she went through with this. 

She swung her legs out away from the bench and stood up quickly. Zevran didn't quite mask the brief flicker of disappointment but Chantal took a deep breath and met Isabela's eyes with a steely challenge despite the heat rising in her cheeks. "Do you have a room here? Or… are we going to your ship?" They certainly couldn't take this back to the inn with the rest of their companions. Alistair would never be able to meet her eyes again. 

Zevran beamed in wicked anticipation and a hint of knowing satisfaction. He thought she'd say yes, like she said yes to nearly everything he introduced her to. If she didn't like it, which admittedly didn't happen often but did happen on occasion, she'd just say so and they'd stop and do something else.

At least she hoped that worked the same when you brought someone else along for the ride. 

“Oh, Zevran, she’s darling.” Isabela cooed. “How did you find her?” 

“Attempted murder, I’m afraid.” Zevran admitted carelessly.

 

More firsts. Chantal found herself on a pirate shift and had to fight the urge to call everything off just to take a chance and explore. She’d read stories of pirates as a child, up alone in her gilded tower. So far, there was a disappointing lack of both parrots and eye patches, but they could be below decks. 

Intellectually, she realized she was using her curiosity to distract from the rolling nerves in her belly, the ones that seemed to be fanning the unbearable heat in her loins rather than quenching it. “Have you ever made someone walk the plank?” She blurted to Isabela’s back as she swaggered towards a cabin door. 

“Of course, sweet little thing.” Isabela purred while she threw it open. “That’s the pirate captain initiation. You don’t get the fancy hat until you’ve made someone walk the plank for the first time. You get an extra feather if you do it in shark infested waters.” 

She was fairly certain Isabela was teasing her, particularly judging by Zevran’s throaty chuckle behind her. Isabela reached for a lamp, lighting it carelessly as Zevran shut the door behind them. The click sounded deafening, even above Chantal’s pounding heartbeat. 

But then Zevran’s arms twisted around her waist, pulled her flush against his chest. His hands, his clever and wicked hands, rested just above her trousers and Chantal fought the urge to arch into him and send them lower. Isabela sat down heavily on her low bed, arching one sensuous eyebrow at them. 

Time for a confession. “I’ve never done this. Anything like this. Just…” 

“Oh!” Isabela grinned, reaching out one elegant hand. “Am I your first woman? What a treat!” 

Chantal didn’t feel like she needed to explain, additionally, that Isabela was also about to be her first threesome and only her second sexual partner ever. Zevran’s breath blew warm across her ear, a sharp distraction that calmed her nerves.

This was a woman, she reminded herself sharply. Just a woman, not an ogre or a broodmother or any of the other horrible things she’d seen. “Come here, sugar.” Isabela coaxed sweetly. “I’ll show you exactly how to do it.” 

Chantal turned just a fraction, enough to gaze upwards into Zevran’s face. Enough to see the dark lustful look turning his features predatory in the dim light. It gave her the confidence to step out of his loosening arms and take Isabela’s offered hand. 

“There we go.” Isabela twined her fingers together with hers, tugging her forward. Unsure of herself, she allowed Isabela to tug her down until she found herself situated on the pirate’s lap, straddling her. Nervously, she placed her hands on the other woman’s shoulders, taking in their intimate position. Isabela’s face was just at the height of Chantal’s small breasts, but Isabela was grinning like a feline with a bowl of cream as she trailed her fingers up Chantal’s side. 

“Let’s start with a kiss, sweet little warden.” Isabela angled her chin up, tugging Chantal’s torso so close that the woman’s much larger breasts pressed eagerly against her ribs. Chantal leaned down, hesitating only a moment before lightly touching her lips to Isabela’s.

Almost immediately, Isabela deepened her hesitant kiss, her tongue pressing her open until she yielded. The pirate queen tasted like ocean spray, like rope, sunlight and sweat. Chantal allowed her hands to move as Isabela’s were, over the other woman’s shoulders, the soft skin of her neck, the fine sweep of her delicate cheekbones, her thick dark hair. Isabela moved, changed the angle of the kiss, her hands traveling to cup Chantal’s bottom, dragging her closer still. 

When Isabela pulled away, she seemed as breathless as Chantal felt. Isabela’s eyes flicked behind Chantal and she laughed, a deep throaty sound as old and reckless as the ocean itself. “Look what we’ve done to him already, Warden.” 

She followed Isabela’s gaze, landed on Zevran. He’d moved, most likely to get a better angle of their kiss. His armor lay discarded, his shirt lay abandoned forlornly on the floor as well, leaving him bare chested and beautiful, tattoos swirling artfully over his bronzed skin. 

There was no missing the bulge in his trousers, the covetous hunger in Isabela’s eyes as she admired Zevran’s form. She supposed she should feel… possessive. Jealous, even. 

Instead, she felt a warm glow of pride. Yes, she thought smugly, this was the man she lured into her tent, the one she seduced, the one who spent his nights bringing her crashing to the edge of pleasure again, and again, and again. 

The one who swore himself to her service like a knight from a fairy tale. And yes, that was silly and girlish and she’d never risk saying it out loud at the risk of sounding childish, but she couldn’t help thinking it sometimes. 

And it wasn’t Isabela he was looking at, it was her. Maybe her theory about raw sensuality was right after all. 

“I think…” Chantal started, bravely brushing Isabela’s curls over the other woman’s warm soft shoulder. “I’d like to kiss you, again. Just to make sure I like it.” 

Isabela laughed, tugging at one of Chantal’s braids and capturing her lips like a pirate raiding a ship. Chantal caught Zevran’s quiet moan in the background as Isabela pulled Chantal’s shirt from her trousers and Chantal began to explore for catches in the pirate’s armor. She found one, sent a shoulder guard clamoring to the ground loud enough to startle both of them. Chantal giggled, pressing her empty hand to her swollen lips, and Isabela’s mouth quirked in a half-amused smile. 

“Careful Warden, or you’ll owe me new armor.” Isabela warned. Before Chantal could say anything else, Isabela ripped her shirt up in one smooth motion, tugging it over Chantal’s head and throwing it toward Zevran. Chantal, off balance and exposed, fought the urge to blush again. “Now tell me, sugar, how do you like these perfect little tits of yours to be touched?” 

Chantal realized suddenly she was losing a battle with her flushed skin and skipping heartbeat. Before she could answer, before she could make her tongue do anything worthwhile at all, Isabela’s deft fingers were pulling the scrap of cloth covering her breasts free, baring them to the cool air of the cabin and her humming, questing mouth. 

Her entire body bucked when Isabela lowered her lips to one of the ripe, pink buds. She couldn’t help it. Isabela’s other hand caressed up over the neglected globe, the pad of her thumb teasing in circles around the hard point, even as her tongue tasted the other. 

This, Chantal thought, must be how desire demons formed. In rooms like this, with unwary mages who fell prey to the pleasures of the flesh. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not even when Isabela’s teeth nipped playfully against the sensitive bud and she cried out in abandon. 

“Ah, I see.” Isabela pulled back, grinning. “Has Zevran ever made you orgasm with just his mouth on these beauties? I bet I could.” 

She wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat. She made a pleading noise of want when Isabela pinched one of her sensitive buds lightly. She felt keenly aware of Zevran’s burning gaze, even if she wasn’t looking at him, and Isabela’s larger breasts still clad in most of her armor beneath her writhing form. 

She wanted to touch her too. She let her long slim fingers trail down Isabela’s shoulders, to the soft curves contained beneath the leather. “Can I?” She asked. 

“I thought you’d never ask, sweet thing.” Isabela purred. Within a second, Chantal felt her back hit the bed and Isabela rose up over her, shucking armor as quickly as she could. A knife fell from somewhere near the breasts Chantal was so keen to see, landing on the mattress beside them as Isabela pulled another from her boot and dumped it onto the floor. It was followed in quick succession by three other knives and Chantal couldn’t help but laugh. 

“It’s like watching Zevran get undressed.” She smiled warmly, up at the nearly naked goddess above her. 

“Oh?” Isabela waggled her eyebrows. “No staffs I should be careful of hidden on you then?” 

In one slow, sensuous movement, Chantal rolled and bent her knees, long enough to pull the blade hidden in her boot free and let it fall to the floor with a clatter. Isabela’s grin took on a hard edge of fierce desire. “My, my.” She tutted, freeing her enormous breasts, crowned with proud dusky nipples. “A surprise from our little mage.” 

“She’s full of surprises.” Zevran’s voice, low with want, was edged with something almost tender. Something that didn’t extinguish the pleasure in her belly, but deepened it into something… more. 

Without being fully aware of what she was doing, her hands trailed up Isabela’s golden skin to the pert globes on her chest. It was odd to touch someone else’s breasts, but the same light teasing touch she preferred sent Isabela into an earthy moan. It was Chantal’s turn to sit up, the pirate queen straddling her now, nude but for the smallest small clothes Chantal ever saw. The long line of Isabela’s back was presented to Zevran, dotted with the same small white scars she often found on his skin. The familiarity was comforting, even as the sounds Isabela made jangled her nerves like expensive fine whiskey. Chantal brought her lips to the woman’s sloping shoulder, opening her eyes wide to watch Zevran. 

His eyes slipped appreciatively across Isabela’s bare skin, but focused on the pale hands caressing the woman’s breasts more than anything else. Chantal felt a heady rush of power as Isabela cursed, tipping her head back, exposing the long line of her throat with the pulse thrumming under her smooth, silk skin. 

Zevran would have moved his lips to her throat, so it was exactly what Chantal did, dipping her tongue into the hollow of the woman’s clavicle, tasting the sweat flavoring her skin, biting back her own moan. She closed her eyes in reverence, and when she opened them again she met Zevran’s dark ones staring holes into her gaze. 

When they eventually got around to taking off her own breeches, they were going to find her soaked. She rubbed her thighs together tightly to ease some of the growing pressure as she nipped at Isabela’s skin. 

“Andraste’s flaming knickers.” Isabela swore, tugging roughly on Chantal’s braids. Chantal giggled again against Isabela’s skin, ducking her head lower, to one of the perfect breasts against her face. She paused, waited even as Isabela arched into her in need. 

Waited until Zevran’s arms wrapped around the pirate queen from behind, one of his tanned hands cupping her breasts as he knelt behind her, staring down at Chantal from over Isabela’s shoulder. 

“Little seductress.” He murmured, forcing Isabela’s back to arch even further until the hard nipple brushed against her lips. “I should have known you’d excel at this game as well.” 

“Tired of watching, Zev?” Isabela chuckled breathlessly. The chuckle became an eager moan as Chantal opened her mouth, laved one nipple with her tongue while she carefully pinched the other. 

“I want to watch you lick her juices, little warden.” Zevran purred. “I want to fuck you while you use your tongue on her. I want you to bring her pleasure while I bring you yours.” 

Chantal couldn’t help the spark of electricity, both the one that jumped to life in her stomach and the one that escaped through her fingertips into Isabela’s pebbled nipple. Isabela’s whole body went taut, and then she shattered, jerking in Zevran’s grip, her cry loud enough to bring her whole crew running if they were so inclined. 

Chantal was instantly apologetic, pulling her fingers back with a wince. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just…when I’m excited...” 

Isabela’s head dropped back on Zevran’s shoulder and he was laughing, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth as Isabela panted. “And I thought you were to make her come with attention to her breasts alone, yes? But, she is a masterpiece. I should not be surprised she raised your bet.” 

Had she…? Maker’s breath, she couldn’t have. Chantal felt like her whole face was about to burst into flame. 

“Sweet maker, do you know, there was another mage who could do that too.” Isabela moaned, panting and twitching still as Zevran rubbed a soothing hand up her stomach. “An apostate. Andraste’s flaming panties.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” She said contritely, biting her bottom lip in concern. She flicked unsure eyes to Zevran. 

“Oh, well you better ‘not mean to’ again, Warden.” Isabela threatened without real menace. “I’ve got some other places that trick would be well spent, and you’re going to find them.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this is only part one of our very steamy encounter.


	11. How to Enjoy a Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal and Zevran plunder Isabela.

Chantal wanted to remember this picture for the rest of her life, regardless of how long or short it was. Isabela’s beautiful, toned body stretched out, her ass in the air, and Zevran rising above her, his fingers digging into her hips as she slowly, leisurely, bottomed out in her tight sheath. Isabela moaned something that almost sounded like a prayer to the Maker, arching her back to urge him in deeper. 

Chantal made a note to pay better attention to the act itself when Zevran plunged into her next time. She’d never bothered to look down at where their bodies joined, but watching him slowly withdraw from another woman’s body, slick and hard, before sliding back in… 

Chantal whimpered, the heal unspooling in her stomach, wetness clinging to the inside of her thighs. She couldn’t decide what she wanted more as she knelt beside the other two, watching in delight and fascination. Isabela’s thighs trembled, the muscles in Zevran’s core clenched, and Chantal - torn between which to touch, decided to touch them both. One hand traced down Zevran’s core, the other lightly brushed against Isabela’s upturned ass while she stared, breathless and hot, at their joining. 

“Mi amor.” Zevran sighed, one hand moving from Isabela’s hips to thread into her hair, to pull her, breathless with want, to his lips. She opened under him, lost in the sensation of his tongue tracing hers. 

“You must be desperate, yes?” Zevran asked, letting his hand slip over her cheek, down her neck, brushing gentle across her collarbone. She arched into his touch, begging wordlessly for more. Zevran grinned, his teeth flashing sinfully against his curved lips. He lifted his other hand, lightly smacked Isabela’s bottom. 

“Perhaps our pirate queen would consent to return the favor you provided?” He asked, eyes absolutely wicked. “Put that mouth to good use, hm?” 

“Oooh, please.” Isabela moaned, breathy and earthy and absolutely perfect. “Get those trousers off, sweet thing. Let Bela take care of you.” 

The laces dissolved like magic underneath her fingers and she peeled down trousers and small clothes, kicking boots off roughly. One of them hit Isabela’s desk, knocking off a rather impressive hat. “Sorry.” Chantal squeaked.

Zevran chuckled. Isabela just reached for her impatiently, one long arm grabbing hers and tugging her closer. “Lay down, sweet little warden, before you break any of my expensive toys.” 

Zevran reached down to play with Isabela’s dusky nipples, making the pirate moan and arch, making her pull Chantal closer even more urgently. 

“She tastes just as sweet as you think, Isabela.” Zevran swept Isabela’s hair over one shoulder so he could lean forward over the other, watch as Isabela spread Chantal’s thighs apart. She should be embarrassed by how wet she was, but both Isabela and Zevran looked at her as if she were a tasty morsel ready to be devoured immediately. 

“Oh, I’m sure.” Isabela purred, trailing her quick fingers up the outside of Isabela’s thighs while she began to trail teasing, light kisses up the inside. “They had you locked in a tower, sweetheart? My, my, my…” 

Isabela skipped right over her heated center, trailing those light, teasing kisses down the other thigh. Chantal threw her head back and moaned, bucking her hips up, desperately trying to call attention to where she needed touched. 

“A shame.” Zevran agreed. “She even told me the stories about orgies in the moonlight are false.” 

“Well, we’ll have to make up for that, hmm?” Isabela’s eyes gleamed wickedly, and then her fingers slipped right through the slick heat covering her womanhood and Chantal lost track of all reasonable thought. Isabela’s fingers were similar to his, but so different as well. Rough and calloused from handling daggers, but softer when she stroked, much more teasing, taunting almost. 

“Maker!” Just about sobbed as Isabela lapped the flat of her tongue down the length of her slip.

“For you, Warden, I’ll go by Isabela.” 

Zevran laughed and thrust, hard, into Isabela. The motion brought a surprising and much appreciated degree of friction against her neglected clit. “Make her sing, Isabela.” Zevran ordered, pinching the other woman’s nipple. 

And Maker, Isabela did. This, Chantal thought, must be how it felt to walk a plank, the ocean wide and expansive in front of you. Isabela didn’t just lick, she devoured, her hands digging into Chantal’s thighs, splayed on top of her to hold her down with a surprising amount of strength. Isabela’s clever tongue never stopped, circling her clit, flicking it, pushing her higher and higher.

But it wasn’t enough, not near enough. Chantal whined and Zevran took one of Isabela’s hands, guided it to her sopping entrance. Isabela took the cue immediately, slipping one finger inside, then another. And yes, she needed those fingers, needed them to fall into the rhythm Zevran had taken up behind Isabela, his dark eyes ravenous on her body as she trembled and twisted. 

Chantal mewed in need, raising her hips up in blatant invitation, bringing her hands to her own breasts, cupping them as Isabela closed her lips around her clit, sucking gently, and curling those devious fingers inside her. 

Chantal broke like waves against the docks, shattered as if she’d fallen off the cliffs. Her body rolled, her moans echoed in the cabin, and Zevran was thrusting faster into Isabela, he could feel his thrusts in the way her fingers slipped back and forth inside her. 

“Some help, little witch?” Zevran grunted, pulling Isabela back up, letting the pirate’s fingers slip from within her. And he lifted up one her thighs, giving Chantal a perfect view of his cock splitting the pirate queen’s sex in two. 

Chantal knew what he wanted, didn’t have to ask. She stretched, leisurely, bringing herself to her still trembling knees. Slowly, she threaded her fingers through Isabela’s dark hair, staring into the other woman’s eyes as she trailed her hands low, teasing over the softness of her stomach, the clenching muscles as Zevran fucked her. 

“Warden…” Isabela moaned in surrender, dropping her head back on Zevran’s shoulder. Chantal captured her lips immediately, a conquest if she’d ever made one, and let her fingers circle the little bud that matched hers. 

The smallest spark was enough to cause the pirate to explode again, and Chantal swallowed her moans greedily as Zevran’s hips stuttered unevenly. Then he was moaning too, wrenching her lips from Isabela’s roughly to claim them himself as he spilled inside her. 

 

They stayed on the boat until dawn painted the sky pink. Chantal didn’t feel particularly well rested, but she certainly felt satisfied, and that was something. Zevran slipped his arm around her waist as they ambled through Denerim. He was humming something under his breath. 

“What is mi amor?” Chantal asked, stifling her yawn. “You say it sometimes.” 

“Ah, nonsense in Antivan.” He grinned, but he didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Not nearly the poetry you deserve, but I doubt they make poetry to honor women such as you, yes? You are too rare.” 

She flushed in delight. Zevran continued on, as he always did. She suspected he took almost as much pleasure in making her turn pink as he did in the things they enjoyed in the bedroom. 

“I must admit, I am concerned that they are locking up all of the most eligible damsels in towers, as if waiting for a fairy tale prince, yes? Should we send Alistair to investigate?” 

She giggled, letting her head rest against his shoulder. Alistair could go obtain all the rest of the girls in towers, if he wished. 

She’d escaped her own and found an assassin who  _ clearly  _ lied about his skills picking locks to impress a newly liberated circle mage. Better, she thought, than a storybook prince. 

“There you are!” 

They were still a block from the inn, but when they rounded the corner, Wynne was waiting. Her arms crossed over her chest, jaw trembling with anger. “Where have you been?” She demanded. 

Somehow, she didn’t think Wynne was very much going to like the answer. She bit her lip, chanced a quick glance up at Zevran.

The bastard was grinning like a cat that had gotten into the cream, so Chantal supposed she was taking the fall for this one herself.

“You look… you look…” Wynne scanned Chantal, shook her head in shocked disbelief. Chantal didn’t know  _ exactly _ how she looked, but she could make an educated guess that it probably looked like she’d spent all night having a threesome with a pirate. 

“This!” Wynne rolled her eyes skyward. “This is the best reason for getting rid of the circles! You take a well mannered, reasonably intelligent girl out of them and she becomes possessed by the demon of mischief! She loses her damned mind!” 

“Wynne…” Chantal tried to soothe. 

“Do not dare!” Wynne held up one finger, then jabbed it toward the inn. “You’ll clean up, and then we’ll spend all day searching this city for that damned scholar. I don’t want to hear one  _ word _ about how exhausted you are or if you’ve got any diseases you’ve picked up from wherever he dragged you to!” 

“I think the baths are big enough for two, my warden.” Zevran winked down at her roguishly. 

Wynne’s sputtering shouts of rage could most likely be heard all across Denerim. 


	12. Driving an Assassin to Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran realizes he's lost his mind, and his heart.   
> Chantal trusts him, in spite of it all.

Haven left them all raw, but she didn’t think it hit any of them the way it hit Zevran. Perhaps Chantal shouldn’t have prodded, maybe it would be better if she didn’t know this dark, sordid secret. But the guardian used it to hurt Zevran, used it to shatter that careful, smooth facade. Chantal couldn’t bear to see him hurt, so she asked. 

She asked, and he told her. 

Zevran picked her as his suicide method before he ever saw her, before he befriended her, before he fell into her bed. She was the blade meant to take his life the way he’d taken his former love’s. Rinna. 

Chantal wondered what she looked like. Elven, so thinner than she most likely. Graceful, willowy, elegant. She’d have been beautiful, of course. Zevran liked beautiful things. Maybe she had dark hair like Chantal’s, or perhaps red like Leliana’s. 

He couldn’t meet her eyes, he pointed them firmly in front of him as she examined his sculpted, handsome face. The rest of the camp slept behind them, with the exception of Shale, who guarded the precious pouch of ashes. 

She’d fought a damn dragon for those ashes, and she’d do it again in a second rather than confront the darkness in Zevran’s heart. She’d march right back up to Haven and do it herself, alone, rather than hold this poisonous knowledge.

“So, now you know.” Zevran said flatly. “I can understand if you wish nothing more to do with me, but… I find I cannot regret it. Whatever I sought when I left Antiva…” 

“Your death.” She whispered softly. 

“Yes. So I thought. But I found what I needed instead, here. With you and this… insane mission you have found yourself ensconced in, my beautiful warden.” 

She reached out and laid her hand over his. He wasn’t wearing gloves, they’d gotten burned too badly in the fight with the dragon. She still nursed a rather nasty burn of her own over most of her right shoulder, Wynne healed the worst of it, but the poor woman needed to recover too. 

She couldn’t judge him as harshly as he thought he deserved, not when the shade asked her if she failed Jowan and she didn’t know the answer. 

“Do not… do not feel as if you must comfort me.” Zevran pulled his hand away with a wry smile. “I do not deserve your kindness, Chantal. I have received more from you than I deserved already, my life alone was forfeit before it fell into your capable, lovely hands.” 

“Wynne told me once that nobody receives the kindness they deserve in the world.” 

Zevran snorted in exasperation, rolling his eyes upward. “Whatever does that even mean? That we all receive too much? Not enough? It is exactly the irritating babble she would spout.” 

She nearly giggled, replacing her hand insistently over his. “Would you prefer to cry on my bosom? It isn’t as impressive as Wynne’s, I’m afraid, but…” 

He laughed, shaking his head. “Wynne disapproves of this kind of talk, Warden.” He purred, flipping his hand to catch her fingers with his. He ran his fingers over her captured knuckles, soft and soothing circles. 

Wynne disapproved of him. Wynne asked her, blunt and unashamed, if she didn’t feel like Zevran was a dangerous distraction. If she could slay the archdemon if it was a choice between Zevran and her duty. 

Her duty, she supposed, was to choose a cold grave instead of Zevran’s warm embrace. A life alone, dedicated to defeating the darkspawn instead of a camp full of friends, of life, of joy. Why couldn’t she have both? Why couldn’t she do her duty and fall asleep next to Zevran? Why couldn’t she slay darkspawn and listen to Leliana sing? 

Wynne said because life was not always fair, but Chantal was powerful. Why couldn’t she make the world more fair? 

“Do you wish to end our affair, Chantal? Truly, I would not blame you.” He continued to rub circles with his thumb over her knuckles. If she didn’t know better, she would say he was anxious. “There are others with far more honorable intentions than I.”

“Do you think you’re going to hurt me?” She asked quietly. 

“You ask as if the answer is clearly no!” Zevran’s fingers tightened on her fingers. “Chantal, you must not be so naive. The entire reason we met is because I attempted to murder you in cold blood.” 

“No.” Chantal couldn’t bear not looking into his eyes any longer, reaching up to gently guide his chin towards her. His eyes were dark, secrets lurking in their depths. Guarded, walls up, like a frightened and cornered predator. “You did not attempt to murder me. You put yourself in my path to be murdered, but I didn’t kill you.” 

“Instead you invited the assassin into your bed.” He said seriously. “A move wisely criticized by nearly every one of your companions.” 

“I trust you.” 

“So did Rinna.” His eyes were wells of sorrow. She could slide into them and drown in his regrets. 

“I’m not Rinna.” She insisted, scooting closer to him in the grass. Zevran sighed, ripped his eyes away from hers again and pointing them into the empty night. 

“You’re not who you were then.” She reasoned softly, pulling her knees up to her chin. “You can’t be that person again, Zevran. He’s gone, now.” 

“And who is left, hm?” He asked. 

“The man who lunged at a dragon because I told him to.” She answered seriously, furrowing her brow. “The one who climbed up a mountain, slashing through crazy cultists, to find magic ashes that may or may not cure a man who can help us take down the man that left me to die.”

“Oh, so I have gone mad as well then?” He asked, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Although that does explain much.” 

“You’re the man I trust.” Chantal said simply. “In my bed and out here. That’s who you are now, I’m sorry if it isn’t who you wanted to be.” 

“Diablo te lleve.” Zevran muttered darkly. “How could you…” 

He snapped his eyes back to his. She could see into their depths now, past the sorrow, past the pain and guilt. She saw something bright, something precious. 

Then his mouth was on hers, brutally capturing her choked gasp of surprise. Pushing, demanding, and desperate underneath it all. Perhaps, she thought fancifully, a little frightened. He slid his hand into her loose hair, tugging her closer to him, pushing her knees down as he pulled her flush to his skin. He nipped lightly at her lip as he withdrew, leaving her breathless and trembling. 

It was more. More than any other kiss she’d had from him. 

“I am unsure if I am the man you need, Warden, but I am sworn to you still.” He growled. “And you can trust that.” 


	13. Stealing the Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran teaches Chantal naughty Antivan poetry and how to steal a moment of happiness in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zevran's POV (finally?) Nothing but tooth rotting fluff and smut. Enjoy!

_The symphony I see in thee_  
_it whispers songs to me_  
_Songs of hot breath upon my neck_  
_Songs of soft sighs by my head_  
_Songs of nails upon my back  
_ _Songs of thee come to my bed…_

 

Zevran enjoyed very little as much as he enjoyed making his Warden blush. He’d recite dirty poems for her all day long as they hiked across the countryside, as long as that delectable pink flush spread under her skin. She laughed, rubbed her throat self-consciously as the pink spread down her elegant neck. “Zevran… that is…” 

“Cringeworthy?” Alistair suggested. “Vulgar?” 

“Desperate?” Morrigan added on. “Inane?” 

“I think it’s a bit sweet.” Leliana chirped with a sly wink in Chantal’s direction. This only made Chantal blush more, her eyes dropping shyly to the path in front of her. 

It was no secret that his shy little chantry mouse was a wicked seductress in the bedroom, their carousing openly ridiculed as being the reason Darkspawn avoided their camp. Still, in the light of day, he could make Chantal blush so hard he could feel the heat coming off her in waves. 

He’d pay for it later, of course, but that was one of the few things _more_ enjoyable than watching Chantal squirm in front of their companions while he recited dirty poetry. 

“Zevran, honestly.” Wynne tutted in disapproval. “You’re a menace.” 

“Did you kill her anyway?” Shale asked nonchalantly. “That was the painted elf’s job, yes? Prior to it failing so abysmally at it.” 

Sten snorted in agreed derision. 

“Of course I did! But after we made love. I’m no monster.” 

“Truly, you’re a saint among men.” Alistair muttered darkly. Chantal giggled into her hand and he shot her a saucy wink.

“See, that is what I kept trying to tell the Crows, no?” He grinned recklessly. “And yet, they did not believe me.”

She returned his smile, although it still remained too brief for his liking. She smiled less and less as they circled closer to Ostagar. There were some who thought, insanely, that King Cailan may have survived his foolish battle with the Darkspawn. If there were to be a new king of Ferelden, it was immensely important that the old king be clearly labeled as dead and gone. 

And yet, as Chantal looked ahead again, he saw her worry and dread flicker to life once more. Arl Eamon wanted the new king to be their oafish bastard prince, and Alistair very much _didn’t_ want to happen. So both men looked to Chantal as if she could solve it. 

Her shoulders were so very slender, and yet they carried so much. 

“Here I thought you could be cheered up by some naughty poetry. Your face is too lovely, my Chantal, to wear such an unhappy expression.” He sidled up closer to her, pressed his arm reassuringly against hers. 

There was still a hint of blush under her cheeks when she looked back up at him, resuming a small smile. He knew it was just for him, and he valiantly beat away how much it warmed his heart that she would try to smile, just for him. 

“I appreciate it.” 

“It is good to be appreciated, yes?” Zevran threw his arm around her shoulders. “Me? I tend to make the most of whatever situation I find myself in, stealing what moments I can. It’s served me well, most days. You might learn to do the same.” 

 

In retribution for his continued recitation of naughty Antivan poetry, Wynne pressed him into being the one to collect firewood. There was still plenty of light left, and the forest seemed peaceful enough. 

He wasn’t surprised when he heard Chantal’s soft footsteps approaching behind him. Leisurely, he threw a stick to his left. “My fair warden, we must improve your sneaking skills.” 

“If I wanted to sneak, I’d just turn into a bird.” She did sound remarkably more upbeat. “I’ve brought you a present, and I couldn’t wait until you came back so…” 

He turned, fully anticipating seeing her nude and bathed in sunlight. Not that he’d say no, of course. It would be a perfectly marvelous present. Instead, Chantal held up a pair of fine leather boots in her hand. “Leliana, it turns out, was holding out on us. She snagged these from Haven, but they don’t fit her. I think they’ll fit you, and they’re Antivan leather, according to her.”

They were. Fine and butter soft, sleek and shiny. Chantal looked so pleased with herself, holding the prized boots up for his inspection. “Well, what do you think?” 

He didn’t know which he adored more, the boots or the woman holding them. But his tongue worked even as his mind careened out of control. “I believe the only thing better than being presented with those would be you wearing them without a stitch of clothing.” 

She smiled shyly, letting her eyes drift down to her feet, shifting slowly from one foot to another. “I… I’d like to do something else too. Something Leliana told me about.” 

“Oh?” The Chantry sister had an _exquisitely_ dirty mind. Zevran couldn’t wait to see what Leliana had inspired his little bird to do. 

“We haven’t… I heard about it. In the circle.” Chantal took a step forward, placing the boots on the ground before stepping forward again. She splayed her long slender fingers over his chest, tipping her head up in blatant invitation. 

An utterly irresistible invitation, if he did say so himself. He met her tempting lips in a heartbeat, loving the way she melted into him, responsive, sensitive. She opened underneath him like a flower uncurling its petals to the sun. 

Ah, that was poetry right there. 

She pushed him back gently, but kept her lips eagerly on his. Zevran allowed himself to be backed up against a nearby tree until he could go no further and Chantal seemed satisfied. Then she pulled away, cheeks flushed deliciously pink, dark eyes sparkling. Then, slowly, she gracefully fell to her knees. 

The great Warden, would be savior of Ferelden, his personal angel of redemption, knelt before him with her delicate kiss swollen lips parted in eager anticipation. Zevran immediately knew what Leliana told his pretty little bird about, what she’d heard about in the circle. Zevran himself had not broached this with her, for several reasons, the first being that he’d just begun to explore all the ways he could make her sing. He easily got lost and distracted in Chantal’s pleading, begging, panting breaths and cut off moans, found them more enticing than possibly anything he’d heard before. 

The second, a much more tender reason, had to do with the fact that he wanted to give her things, he did not wish to ask any more of her besides that she spare his life, which she’d done without thought. The same way she did whatever was asked of her without complaint. 

“I see.” He grinned down at her, gently tracing the fall of her hair over her shoulder. She’d taken it from her braids when they made camp and she looked softer with the hair falling around her face. Less like a battle mage, more like a girl, an ordinary girl. One young enough to be tempted by the foreign stranger with a musical accent and his air of danger. Too young to bear the weight of the world on her slim shoulders. “Now, little bird, as much fun as I’m about to have…” 

The small, pleased smile on her lips dropped away immediately, the distress rushing back. “Oh. Is this wrong? Leliana told me what to do, I think I can…” 

He certainly didn’t want that smile to fade, and he surely didn’t want her to doubt herself, yes? 

Wynne was right, he was a menace. He wrapped one finger around a loose wave of her dark hair. “My dear Warden, I am certain you could. But is it not I who should be serving you, my deadly goddess?” 

Chantal bit that plump lower lip of hers, looking up at him with those dark eyes. Her nimble, small fingers trailed up the outside of his thighs and she tipped her head to the side just as if she was the bird she loved to be. Then her nose scrunched up just slightly and she smiled again. “I thought you said I should steal the moments I wanted.” 

Her fingers began to unlace his leather breeches and she revealed just a sliver of his tanned skin between the shirt he wore and the pants she was making increasingly more uncomfortable. She leaned up, her breath warm against bare skin, placing a light kiss on the exposed flesh before looking up at him again, blushing and beautiful. “Please?” 

He swelled to hardness painfully quickly with that one breathy whisper. Who was he to deny her, really? If his great hero wished to kneel in the dirt for him, to play with demons and chase thrills… 

Well, would he be as enamoured with her otherwise? She was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever been able to grasp within his palms,and he was unmoored by her. 

“As you wish, little witch.” He murmured softly. Chantal beamed in delight, her fingers making quick work of the laces until she freed his heavy, hard cock. Her staff calloused palm slid over his length and he took a deep breath, exhaling through his nostrils. 

“So what did our naughty Chantry sister tell you?” Zevran teased with a dark chuckle, threading his fingers through her dark hair. “Was she so inspired by my poetry?” 

“I was.” Chantal admitted and he noted how she shifted, rubbing her thighs together. Her delicate fingers traced his length and she slowly brought it to her lips, placing a sweet kiss on the very tip. “I’ve been… thinking about this for days though.” 

Oh, his naughty naughty Warden. He smirked down at her. 

Then all thoughts temporarily fled as Chantal opened her mouth and enclosed him in her slick, warm, velvet heat.

Zevran would write his own poetry to Chantal’s sinful, sweet mouth. She held him in place for a moment before allowing her tongue to lave over his length, letting him slide back from her lips as she looked up at him, flushed and shy. “Is that right?” 

Zevran tried to patiently remind himself she wasn’t teasing him on purpose, that he was most likely imagining that wicked glint in her eye of a cat playing with a mouse. “Ah, I think you should do it some more. Just to make sure it is right, si?” 

Chantal giggled, then enveloped him in her heat again. This time, she wrapped one of her small hands around his base, looking up at him as she applied the slightest pressure with her fingers. Yes, Leliana had explained this act well to his little bird. He’d certainly be teasing the sister about it later. 

The tip of Chantal’s tongue flicked the head of his shaft and Zevran moaned appreciatively, watching the blood rush to Chantal’s ears as she heard him. She remained tentative as she explored, but grew bold, applying suction, letting her tongue trace down the veined length.. Zevran eagerly directed her to with gentle pressure on her head to begin moving. 

And once she did, Zevran very nearly begged her to never stop. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her, the dark brown eyes focused so intensely on his face, her flushed skin, the way she squirmed needily beneath him, her thighs trembling as she felt her own arousal build. Then there was the beautiful, sinful picture of his length sliding in and out of those pink, perfect lips. 

Perhaps he was a menace, but he suspected she was as well no matter how innocent Wynne claimed she was.

He would have been content to let her go all day, let the world fall to the blight, allow bastards to become kings and wars to rage. Anything, as long as Chantal Amell stayed on her knees with his cock stretching her sweet little mouth. 

“You drive me to the brink.” He hissed down at her in Antivan. “Do you know what I would do to you, little witch? Would you allow me to ruin you?” 

Chantal hummed as if she knew what he said, as if she agreed wholeheartedly. Zevran could take no more. He needed to have her, now, before someone came looking to take her away from him and drag her back to play the hero.

He used his grip in her hair to gently but firmly pull her away from his length. She whined in protest, demanding eyes staring up at his. He didn’t bother explaining, but tugged her from the dirt in a moment, whirling so she was against the tree, placing her palms on the rough bark as he fumbled with the leggings and chainmail she wore. 

She prefered armor and pants, laughed and said she’d never wear mage robes again, but Zevran had to admit they had their uses. In particular, ease of access. Perhaps he could change her mind. As it was, he felt one of the strings on the laces of her leggings snap under his rough, demanding fingers before he yanked them down. 

He could smell her, hot and heavy on the air, enough to make his mouth water. Without preamble, he shoved into her liquid, searing heat and she cried out in delight, clamping down on him as he rutted into her. He leaned over her, capturing her ear as he thrust. 

“Beautiful…” He continued to croon in his mother tongue. “My beautiful Chantal. My perfect little bird.” 

She whimpered his name and he slammed his hips against hers hard enough that she barely choked back her scream. “I need you.” He whispered in Antivan. “I crave you, all hours of the day. I wish nothing more than to bring you hour upon hour of pleasure. I wish nothing more than to stand by your side, even if I’m never graced with anything but your smile.” 

She turned her head over her shoulder, seeking his lips with hers. He allowed himself to be captured, dragged into her heady kiss, the finest wine and the best elixir he could hope for. 

“Tell me you are mine.” He begged against her urgent lips, switching to the common tongue. “Tell me that you belong to me.” 

“Yours.” She moaned, she promised, as if it were that easy. How many other lovers had promised him the same thing, over and over and over.

But with Chantal, he believed it. 

“I’m yours Zev.” She continued breathlessly. “All yours.” 

His hips jerked into an unsteady rhythm and he sunk one hand to the juncture of her thighs, circling that little nub that caused her to buck against him wildly. It wouldn’t be long, not for either of them. 

“Tell me you love me.” He whispered desperately again, the Antivan words blissfully foreign in her ears. “Tell me you’ll never ask me to leave your side.” 

“Yes…” She moaned, and it wasn’t an answer to his question. Not truly. She knew not what he asked. She didn’t know he wanted more from her than anyone else had dared ask. He didn’t want her to accomplish a task, he wanted her to tie her beautiful, brilliant soul to his dark and deranged one.

And he could not ask, not for that. He did not deserve her. 

She shattered and he followed her, trembling against her own wildly shaking body, biting her shoulder to muffle his exultation. 

It was not an agreement to his demands, but in that moment, he could fool himself into thinking it was resounding consent. He wished it was the first time he’d fooled himself so.

 

“Maker’s breath.” Alistair folded his arms over his chest when they emerged, glowering in disapproval despite the red tips of his ears. “Can we _seriously_ not let the two of you alone for a minute?”

Chantal grinned abashedly, holding her armload of firewood out in silent apology. Alistair swept them from her with a shake of his head. “Morrigan wished to discuss something with you, when I asked what it was I was, of course, chided mercilessly.” 

With that, Alistair turned his back on them. Zevran made to follow him with his own stack of wood, topped with the prized Antivan boots, but was stopped by Chantal’s gentle hand on his elbow. 

“Thank you, for teaching me to enjoy the moment.” She whispered, kissing his cheek sweetly. She hummed as she turned away, the dusk painting her with a glow Zevran could not quite put into words. 

There was another poem he heard once in Antiva, and he recalled it perfectly as he watched the sun turn her to gold.

 

 _This battleground is deadly_  
_but you wear blood well for one so gentle_  
_and this was always your nature,_  
_to give light in the dark._

 

“Perhaps I have been incorrect.” 

Zevran, so lost in the moment, could have berated himself for missing Wynne’s approach. He turned to the old woman with a roguish grin instead. “Ah! I knew you could not resist my charms for so long.” 

Wynne’s smile was unsettlingly amused. “Perhaps it is more accurate to surmise you could not resist hers.” 

“She does have exceptionally lovely eyes, yes?” Zevran sighed as if in dreamy contemplation. 

“And an exceptionally loving heart.” Wynne added softly. Zevran pretended not to hear her, following Alistair with his own pile of wood and a heart full of poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final poem is something I grabbed from a tumblr called poemsforpersephone


	14. Chapter 14: Choosing Your Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal chooses how she'd like to die. Zevran realizes he's more compromised than he wished to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut, only fluff and a bit of angst <3

She didn’t realize Cailan and Alistair looked so much alike in the brief period of time when she’d seen them both living. Of course, they weren’t side by side then. They’d been separated by the entire camp, she suspected on purpose. She wondered who avoided who more, the bastard or the prince. 

Now, with Alistair lighting Cailan’s pyre, she could see it. They were clearly brothers, Alistair’s face a younger portrait of Cailan’s, serious and somber when the torch touched kindling. Even in repose, even covered in blood and gore, there was still a trace of Alistair’s smile around Cailan’s lips. 

“I’m going to take his throne, aren’t I?” He asked Chantal grimly. 

“I don’t know.” She leaned her head gently against his shoulder as they watched the pyre burn. “I don’t see a way around it.” 

“The dead have no use for crowns, Alistair.” Wynne placed a comforting hand on Alistair’s other shoulder. “I do not think he would have minded terribly that Arl Eamon asked you to fill his place after his death.” 

“I believed in him.” Alistair’s voice cracked and Chantal turned, burying her face into the cold metal of his armor. 

“We all did.” Wynne sighed. 

 

Ostagar was still beautiful underneath all the carnage. The moon shone down through the arches as they trudged backwards towards the main road, clutching the precious items they’d come to retrieve. Alistair and Chantal brought up the rear, trying to sense any encroaching darkspawn as they fled. 

“I think, sometimes, we should have died here.” Alistair confessed. “With Duncan and the others.” 

They should have, would have, if not for Morrigan’s mother. Now they were alone, the last two wardens in a world on the edge of disaster. Still… she cast her eyes ahead, made out Zevran’s figure ambling leisurely ahead as if he wasn’t ready to strike at her first warning of danger. 

“Maybe we should have, but I’m not sorry we didn’t.” She admitted. “And I’m glad you’re with me too, Ali.” 

He smiled, reached out to tap her shoulder affectionately. “You know, you’re the nicest witch I’ve ever encountered.” 

“You’re the most polite templar.” She teased. Alistair looked over his shoulder, frowned at Ostagar behind him. 

Wynne died in the circle tower, she told Chantal. But he’d been saved, brought back, for some greater purpose, Wynne believed it was to stop the blight. Had they been rescued from the clutches of Ostagar as some part of a divine plan? It seemed insane. She told Wynne as much, pointing out that all Wynne did by agreeing to come with them was sign her own death warrant with a later date.

“Some people don’t get to choose how and when they die.” Wynne claimed serenely when Chantal pressed. “I’m at peace child, I want to fight by your side until my time comes. I refuse to spend the rest of my days knitting.” 

She’d been darning Alistair’s socks then, but Wynne didn’t see the irony in it the way she did. 

“Ali… I don’t want to die in the deep roads.” She whispered softly. 

“Well, the good news is that we’re probably going to die in the archdemon’s throat.” Alistair joked weakly. “So, we don’t have to worry about it.” 

“I want to survive.” Chantal felt her mouth thin in determination while she craned up to stare into Alistair’s face. “I want to choose how and when I die, and I don’t want to die underneath the archdemon. I don’t want to die in the deep roads.” 

“Maybe you should be queen. You’re very demanding for a circle mage.” Alistair chuckled, shook his head. 

“I’m not a circle mage. I’m a grey warden.” She flipped one of her braids over her shoulder. “You said the taint will get us, eventually. In what, fifteen years? Then we’re supposed to go die gloriously in the deep roads.” 

“That’s the plan, my friend.” Alistair sighed.

“No it isn't.” Chantal stopped, crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly. “We’ll come back here. Me and you, we’ll… we’ll go where Duncan and the rest of the wardens went. Right here at Ostagar.” 

“Where we should have died.” Alistair said slowly, letting his eyes flick behind her again. Up ahead, everyone else stopped moving, as if sensing their leader had no plans to continue until Alistair agreed. 

“La belleza?” Zevran called back. “If Alistair is stuck in the mud, I very well think we should leave him this time, si?” 

Chantal giggled in spite of herself, but she didn’t break her gaze away from Alistair’s face as he examined the ruins behind them. Finally, he nodded. “It’s not like I’ve ever been very good at saying no to you, and now I’m frankly terrified to start trying.” 

She threw herself into him, embraced him tightly and pulled his face down to hers so she could kiss his cheek. “You’re a good friend, Ali. A good brother.” 

“Only you would think entering into a mutual suicide pact earns me ‘good brother’ status.” He huffed, but his strong arms circled her waist and lifted her off her feet. “I am glad you’re here. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do this without you.” 

His fingers bunched in the fabric at her waist, his voice thick with unshed tears. Chantal blinked them away from her own eyes, threaded her fingers wordlessly though his mop of unruly hair. “Until the end, Ali.” She promised. “Me and you.” 

 

They looked good together, side by side. His warden and the man who could be king, a bastard prince come home from the wilderness to save his kingdom from death and destruction by the side of a beautiful enchantress. It was a perfect story, the kind bards like Leliana would sing for the rest of the ages. 

There was no place for an assassin in this grand epic. He would be written out entirely, the most unsavory of his warden’s companions. The dog would get more recognition than him. 

As if Trout heard his thoughts, the dog woofed in disgruntlement. Zevran glared at him from the corner of his eye. “I thought I was past this sass from you, si?” 

Trout whimpered, cocked his head to the side. “No, I will not be fooled by your innocent face. I know exactly what you are up to.” 

“What’s he up to?” 

He hadn’t realized she’d broken from the group by the campfire. Her footsteps were covered by Wynne and Morrigan’s argument, Leliana’s sweet song and Oghren’s horrid attempt to sing along, the clash of blades as Alistair and Sten practiced under Shale’s watchful eye. 

Zevran threw one of his blades, watched it land with satisfaction in the tree trunk before he turned to her. The fading light turned her pale skin as luminescent as the finest pearls dredged up from Antiva’s ocean. Her hair was like the night sky itself. His heart ached with how lovely she was. 

He had her for a moment, yes? Surely, more than he deserved. There was no use mourning what he never truly owned. “He is mocking my skills with a blade, as if he could do better! Truly, my warden, this is cause for a duel to the death in Antiva.” 

Trout whined in confusion. Chantal giggled. “I’m sure he meant no offense. You must forgive us Fereldens, we are naturally a barbaric people. Particularly our dogs.” 

Not her, but certainly Alistair. He had no refinement, lacked Zevran’s complete appreciation for the most beautiful and strong creature in their midst. Zevran fought the urge to pick up another blade and launch it at the sweaty beast Sten knocked on the ground. 

“Apologize to Zev, Trout.” Chantal directed in mock sternness. The mabari barked, his whole butt shaking with his tail. Chantal smiled and turned her dark gaze to his. “There, duel averted?” 

“For you, my warden, I shall forgive this insult.” For her. This was for her, he needed to remind himself of that. It was not about him, he did not deserve to keep this goddess in his bed. “I see you have found another? More compatible with your tastes?” 

“Another dog?” Chantal asked in confusion. Trout whined in an almost perfect mimic of her lilting voice. They both cocked their heads to the side and looked at him. 

“No there is… no need to deny it. I… I do not mind.” He lied through his teeth. He had no right to mind. “Such is how it goes, yes?” He asked lightheartedly. 

“How what goes?” Chantal asked quietly, taking a step forward. Her brows drew together in confusion. 

“Alistair does not seem the type to share, si? You and I have had our fun, but I will gladly step aside to avoid complications.” 

Trout barked again and Chantal laughed nervously, brushing her hair away from her face with those slender, elegant fingers. “Zev… I… I’m confused. Or you are.” 

“I have made no claims on you, nor do I wish to do so.” It was like a speech he had memorized. “You are free to pursue your happiness, my sweet lady.” 

“Oh Maker…” Chantal was blushing now. She took another firm step forward. If he had a mind to, he could reach out and close the inches between them. He could crash his lips to her, swallow up her needy little mews, take her to his tent and make her forget any man but him. He could touch her like that lout could not. He knew how to make her sing. “Zev… you’re definitely the one confused.” 

“I saw…” 

“No.” Chantal stated firmly, eyes flashing. “Whatever you thought you saw, it wasn’t that. Ali is like… he’s like a brother, I think. He’s one of my best friends, but we’re not… Andraste, we could never be lovers.” 

Was his mind playing tricks on him? Was he so enamoured with his warden that he mistook a friendly embrace between soldiers for something more? And - more chilling yet - if he was so emotionally compromised already… well, then he was more involved than he had ever been. With anyone. And yet, she would almost certainly not survive this war, this blight, these darkspawn.

“I… I apologize then.” He began stiffly. Chantal giggled, easing the tension, closing the space between them and pressing herself flush to his body. 

“Is this what you were really arguing with my mabari about?” She teased. Trout, the traitor, barked again. 

“I am offended by the very implication.” Zevran sniffed, allowing his hands to rest of the smooth curve of her waist. She felt like home under his palms, warm, soft. Chantal simply sighed, melting into his embrace, resting her forehead on his shoulder.

“I get to make my own choices, Zev.” She murmured. “And I choose you.” 

It was a rather poorer story, but Zevran didn’t mind. The bards didn’t need to sing of her for him to know how lovely she was, how brave and powerful. 

“As you wish then, Chantal.” He whispered into her dark hair. 


	15. Families are Made of More than Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one of their own is threatened, it hits Chantal that families are not made by blood alone. As feelings deepen, she faces the fear of losing her own heart.   
> Shale reminds Wynne what happens to interfering mothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All angst. Some fluff.

Chantal had never seen Morrigan so distressed. The woman had the grimoire, the one they’d found, in the circle tower. It appeared she’d finally had time to read it all, but whatever she found hadn’t been the knowledge she’d been seeking. Instead, Morrigan appeared more pale than usual, her eyes darting to the darkness around them. She’d retreated, as she often did, to her own fire. Some nights, Chantal could coax her to join them. 

She didn’t think she’d be able to this night. 

Chantal watched Morrigan tug her necklace anxiously while she glared into the fire. Chantal steadied her own nerves. Wynne had told them to chuck the book of black magic into the lake, and she certainly didn’t want to run back to the woman and say she’d been right. 

“You asked me once if I had sisters.” Morrigan blurted suddenly, turning her uncanny gold eyes to Chantal. Perhaps it was the flickering flames of the fire, but there seemed to be a certain madness in them. “There have long been legends of the witch of the wilds and her many daughters, after all.”

“Yes.” Chantal agreed cautiously, very pointedly not looking at the book that Morrigan’s eyes darted back to. “You said if you had sisters, you didn’t know any of them.” 

“No.” Morrigan snapped, lifting one hand to impatiently brush her dark hair from her brow. “No I would not.” 

Chantal drew her knees up to her chin and waited. Morrigan flicked those burning eyes back to her and Chantal saw the way her shoulders drooped, defeated. Helpless.  _ Vulnerable. _ That, perhaps, was the most frightening of all these things. Morrigan looked like a little girl lost when she finally crouched down on the grass beside Chantal. With a whine, Trout lifted his head from where it lay beside Chantal’s feet and flopped his massive skull onto Morrigan’s thigh. She did not push him off, but merely curled her fingers through the fur around his neck. 

“My mother prolongs her life using ancient magics.” Morrigan whispered, staring into the fire. “When her body grows too old, she simply transfers her essence into another.” 

Cold sweat broke out on the back of Chantal’s neck and she couldn’t help the horrified whisper that escaped her numb lips. “Her daughters?” 

“Yes.” Morrigan admitted, tongue darting out to wet her dry lips. “I have had many sisters. And she has killed them all.” 

She didn’t know what to do. If Leliana had confessed a secret like this, Chantal would not think twice to throw her arms around the other woman. Morrigan could very well take offense to the gesture. As a compromise, Chantal scooted closer in the dust, leaning over Trout to place her cheek against Morrigan’s cool shoulder.

“What are you doing?” The witch snapped, although she did not move away. Chantal stayed put resolutely, feigning the same nonchalance she watched Zevran use so effectively over and over again.

“I’m comforting you.” Chantal didn’t meet Morrigan’s eyes, let her gaze pierce the fire as well. “Let me know if it works.” 

“I do not need comforted!” Morrigan seethed, although she did not pull away. “I need to… I need…” 

She trailed off, staring hopelessly into the fire. Chantal slowly reached for Morrigan’s hand, folding her staff calloused fingers over hers.

“Anything.” Chantal promised easily. “Anything you need.” 

 

xx

 

“I’m sorry - we’re doing what?” 

Alistair looked at her like she’d grown another head. Chantal paused in the act of buckling her belt around her tunic to shoot him an annoyed glance. “We’re not doing anything. You’re staying put.” 

“Oh, good, I was wondering how long it would take for you to crack under the stress.” Alistair rubbed his face with his hand briskly. She ignored him and bent to pick up Zevran’s dagger, sliding it pointedly into her boot. Alistair continued to babble. “It doesn’t, I don’t know, seem like a bad idea for you to go  _ back _ through Ostagar? Which is the opposite direction of where we need to go, by the way. Then, when you get there, you’re going to slip right through all the darkspawn and into the wilds to slay a homicidal swamp witch?” 

“You’re saying this like we haven’t done  _ crazier _ things.” Chantal declared waspishly. “Remember the possessed cat in Honnnleath? The dragon and cultists in Haven?” 

“ _ We _ did them!” Alistair pointed out. “Chantal you can’t… this is crazy. If we’re going, we should take the calvary, right?” 

“We can’t.” Chantal grabbed her staff with one hand and placed the other on her hip, staring up at Alistair. “Somebody has got to end the blight, Ali. If I don’t come back, it’s up to you.” 

“That’s another problem  with your plan.” Alistair insisted. “Chantal I can’t…” 

“You can!” She fought the urge to reach out and shake him. “Ali, you  _ have _ to. I know, I know it’s scary and I know you didn’t sign up to rule a bleeding country or tromp across every mucky acre of Ferelden. I know you didn’t want to be one half of the only people trying to save our home, but…” 

“You didn’t either.” Alistair’s shoulders dropped and he sighed.

She was eighteen. Barely eighteen. She smiled bravely up at Ali and patted his cheek fondly. “I’ll be back, you know.” 

“Right.” Alistair huffed out his breath and looked around the camp. “So I’ll stay here and wait. Are we certain this isn’t just Morrigan’s attempt to kill me when you’re not around?” 

“Do you really not trust her?” Chantal asked, tipping her head to one side. “After everything we’ve done together?” 

Alistair hesitated and she saw him look over his shoulder at the black clad figure huddled, solitary and quiet. He frowned and remained stubbornly, unusually quiet. Chantal reached out with her free hand and laid her fingers over his elbow, bringing his warm eyes back to hers.

“She’s my family.” Chantal felt the truth in that statement like none other she’d ever made. 

“And so are you. Wynne, Sten, Shale, Oghren, Leliana and… and Zev.” her throat caught on his name, she half choked on it. “Even Bodahn and Sandal. All of you.” 

All of them, but  _ especially _ Zevran.

“Some family.” Alistair muttered sarcastically. 

“Better than the one Morrigan came from.” Chantal squeezed his elbow and resolutely continued to look up at him. “Better than not having one at all, like we used to. Families are more than just blood, Ali.” 

“Come back, then.” Alistair grinned sadly. “Because I’m not certain we’d be a family without you.” 

 

xx

 

She knew he’d be mad, but she didn’t expect his jaw to tremble with suppressed emotion as he stood in front of her. He’d already packed, assuming he’d be accompanying her back to Ostagar, back to the wilds, into battle with a dangerous foe. 

And, really, why wouldn’t he assume he was going? He always accompanied her, she couldn’t bear to leave him behind if they split up. She had told herself, at first, it was best to keep an eye on him. She couldn’t chance leaving him to his own devices, after all, and risk him coming up with a new assasination attempt. 

She couldn’t quite remember when it had shifted from watching him, to enjoying the way he watched her, to desiring his company. Maybe it had been slow, maybe it had been all at once. She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. 

She had solid, strategic reasons for leaving him behind. She needed ranged fighters, she needed solid, heavy armor, she needed healing. Zevran didn’t fit any of those needs. 

But her biggest need, one she couldn’t quite admit to herself, was to keep him safe. This was  _ dangerous _ and she knew it was before she walked into it, a novel experience from walking in blind, not knowing what to expect. This time, she knew, this time…

This time she knew she could keep him safe. 

“Perhaps you should leave Leliana.” Zevran’s eyes flashed when he spoke. “If you have need for one rogue, then you should take the handsome one.” 

“Leli can shoot a bow.”

“As can I.” Zevran maintained stubbornly. Chantal couldn’t help one eyebrow from rising in disbelief. 

“Oh, is that true?” She asked with a wry smirk, momentarily distracted from the gravity of the situation. “Like the lock-picking skills you bragged about?”  

Zevran didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. He grinned, the expression sunny but strained. “Guilty, true, but I still should accompany you. Take us both.” 

His daggers against magic. Ancient, powerful, dark magic. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t bear it. She shook her head silently and Zevran’s eyes darkened. Still, he stepped backwards, his head ducking into a dramatic bow. “As you wish, Warden.” 

Warden. Just warden. Not little witch, not belleza. Not mi amor, whatever that was. He turned on his heel, quick and graceful as only he could be, and she couldn’t bear to let him go either.

“Wait, Zev!” She cried out, stepping forward quickly. She caught his arm and tugged him back to her, falling into his chest and seeking out his lips with hers. They crashed together, thunder and lightning, his tongue ruthless as the fingers digging her chainmail into her skin. She didn’t want to let him go, she didn’t ever want to let him go. Not after the blight, not even when she died. 

Maker help her. 

 

xx

 

Wynne could not help but observe their parting, the way they clung to each other like vines. The force it took to pry them apart, the sheer will it took for Chantal to let go, to turn her back on the Elven assassin…

If Wynne could bottle it like a potion, she’d wallow in riches the rest of her life. It was difficult to reconcile the woman striding towards them, pulling on her leather gloves impatiently, with the girl perched in the window of the tower. 

She’d grown so strong, grown so impossibly lovely and kind. Wynne couldn’t be more proud of her, not if she slayed the archdemon singlehandedly. And that thought, as it always did, caused Wynne to send a silent prayer to the Maker, thanking him for giving her this chance to see her through. To see her  _ live _ . To see her thrive, see her overcome, see her…

See her fall in love. 

She wondered if they knew. She feared them never realizing, but she feared too the day they did. 

“We are ready.” Leliana smiled in the heavy silence, shrugging it off as quickly as she could. “He will not even have time to miss you! Come now, don’t be so glum.” 

“We are, after all, on a cheery mission to slay the swamp witch’s mother.” Shale’s voice rumbled. “That seems as good a cause for celebration as any.” 

“Are you ready Wynne?” Chantal asked quietly, calmly. Her dark eyes shone steady, but there was a gleam on them that touched Wynne’s heart. Reminded her of a child with plaited hair resolutely trying not to cry about the skinned knee Wynne peered at. 

“Are you well, child?” She asked gently, reaching out to straighten one of her braids. Chantal frowned, her face tight with worry and strain. 

She was so young. So very young to carry the world around with her. “What do you mean?” Chantal asked cautiously.

“It did not look easy to say goodbye.” Wynne said it, and instantly wished she had not. Chantal’s color rose immediately, a red flush over her pale skin. She thrust her chin out stubbornly and tipped her head back. 

“I know!” Chantal snapped, stepping away from Wynne’s side. “I know! You think it’s stupid, and careless…” 

“Yes,” Wynne broke in. This was, certainly, stupid and careless. “But…” 

Love was reckless. Love was madness. Love was impossible. She loved him. Wonder of wonders, he loved her too. But then again, how could anyone  _ not _ love her? 

“I don’t want to listen to it anymore!” Chantal exploded, her glare icy and furious. “I am not a  _ child _ and he is…” 

Chantal trailed off, unable to find a word for what Zevran was to her. Leliana, smoothly, slipped her arm through Chantal’s. Wynne did not miss the other woman’s exasperated, smug expression that  _ plainly _ said Wynne was an old fool and she should sit things out while the expert handled it.

As if Wynne had not once been young and foolish herself. 

“Walk with me.” Leliana cajoled. “I have thought of a new story I never told you! Do you know of the dashing rogue known as the Black Fox?” 

Wynne did not hear Chantal’s muted response. She sighed and pinched her nose, tamping down her own flare of irritation. It was not Chantal’s fault for assuming, after all, Wynne had hardly been accepting. She heard barking over her shoulder and turned, watching Zevran forlornly scratch at Trout’s ear. 

She felt a flash of irritation at the daft man. How was it that throughout time, men remained stubbornly impervious to common sense? How fair was it for Chantal to march away, without even a name to give to the nebulous feelings between them? 

“Is the elder mage accompanying us or is it content to wither away here?” Shale asked dryly. Wynne fought the urge to curse. 

“Why must you always be so perverse?” She asked, fussing with her sleeves as she began to follow the young women. 

“Why must the elder mage stick its nose into the business of the grey warden?” 

Wynne smiled softly, watching as Chantal’s dark head leaned close to Leliana’s red one. If you took away their weapons, they’d simply be two friends out for a stroll. Perhaps in a kinder world, a more fair one.

“I fear I think of her like a daughter. And it is a mother’s business to interfere.” Wynne admitted quietly. Shale paused, as if to consider.

“May I remind the elder mage that, perhaps, now is not the best time to be an interfering mother if it values survival.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time coming! Please enjoy this angst <3


	16. Chapter 16: Secrets Always Come Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal lectures her companions and ponders her relationship with Zevran.

It was, perhaps, too much to hope for that they’d make it to the Brecillian forest  _ without _ incident. After all, she’d already doubled back to kill the Witch of the Wilds. What, after that, was one more distraction? 

“I could do without the continued assassination attempts.” Chantal murmured more to herself than anyone else. She’d forgotten Alistair stood beside her until he laughed. 

“Right.” Alistair grinned from ear to ear and gestured to Zevran’s figure crouched over one of the mercenaries that fell, quite quickly, to their ferocious group. “Unlike the last one, these aren’t quite your type.” 

She couldn’t help it, she blushed cherry red to the roots of her hair and stared up at Alistair with as stern a face as she could manage. Alistair’s grin twitched, then he doubled over, clutching his stomach and  _ laughing _ while covered in blood and gore. 

“I’ll tell you what.” Alistair wiped tears from his eyes. “We’ll send a polite note to Loghain, tell him to send prettier ones next time.” 

Despite her immediate desire to do so, she  _ couldn’t  _ electrocute him because they were the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. That whole ‘end the blight’ thing meant that murdering each other was out of the question. That  _ didn’t _ mean she couldn’t hit him, so she clutched her staff and put a fair amount of force into the swing. He blocked it with his arm, but she saw him wince.

“Children!” Wynne admonished severely from where she knelt next to Oghren, who nursed a rather nasty lump on his skull.  

“I suggest aiming for his head, tis hollow after all.” Morrigan drawled, amused.

“Smashed like a melon, I suspect.” Shale’s eyes flashed with, Chantal hoped, was laughter instead of murderous rage. 

“As much as I support only asking for attractive assassins, my beautiful warden, I am afraid these men were not purchased by Loghain.” Zevran held up a bloodstained piece of parchment. “Why do you suppose all these second-rate plotters feel as if they need to carry written instructions? They do not even bother with code! It’s deplorable.” 

Only Zevran would find a way to criticize the techniques of the people attempting to murder them. Still, she smiled and shook her head. “Well, who is it this time?” 

“I confess, this name does not ring a bell.” Zevran made a great show of squinting at the note theatrically. “Have we angered a woman named Marjolaine?” 

That name didn’t ring a bell with her either and she began to shrug, but the shocked little intake of breath was unmistakable from her left. They all turned to the sound, eyes latching onto Leliana’s form, her bow dangling from her fingertips and her expression unreadable. 

“Perhaps… perhaps there is something I should confess.” Leliana began softly. 

 

xx

 

“Alright, so…” Chantal paced back and forth around the fire pit in their makeshift camp, just down the road from the site of the ambush and subsequent massacre. Zevran watched her with growing amusement. Chantal had been under so much strain, and had taken it all so well and with so little complaint, that she’d been bound to snap  _ eventually.  _ He wished it had been when Morrigan asked her to slay her mother, the one who turned into a dragon, but he supposed this would do if she was about to chastise them all. 

“I need to get this straight.” Chantal whirled on their assembled company, raised her hand, and began ticking off her fingers. “Alistair is a secret  _ prince _ , Leliana is a  _ wanted spy _ with a list of enemies a mile long, Shale used to be a  _ dwarf _ , Oghren’s wife was  _ crazy _ …” 

“Heh.” Oghren rumbled sleepily. “But a wyvern between the sheets, let me tell…” 

“Morrigan’s mother was a  _ dragon _ who ate her daughters…” Chantal continued over Oghren’s scandalous recounting before he could even get started. “Sten  _ murdered  _ an entire family, Zevran is a famous  _ assassin _ , and Wynne is an  _ abomination _ .” 

“Vashedan.” Sten grumbled, looking up from where he sharpened his sword. “You knew who and what I was when you asked me to accompany you, Kadan.” 

“Little witch…” Zevran interjected, turning on his most charming smile. “I was very up front about my skills and past, no?” 

“Sten and Zevran are excused.” Chantal declared imperiously. The dog at Alistair’s feet whined and she quickly amended her statement. “As is Trout.” 

“Well, of course the painted elf is excused.” Shale declared flatly. “It smashes naughty bits with the Warden frequently.” 

Chantal dignified that statement with nothing more than a scorching glare. Zevran swore even the great pile of rocks folded in on itself, just a bit. 

“So if anyone else has anything they’d like to tell me, may I suggest now is the time to do it.” Chantal folded her arms over her chest and stared down her companions. For the most part, they all dropped their eyes to the ground under their feet. Only Sten continued to slowly sharpen his beloved sword. Zevran winked at Chantal, but she ignored him. 

“Well…” Alistair began, looking up from the grass. “If we’re going back to Denerim regardless to deal with Leliana’s… small problem, then maybe… maybe we can take a couple hours and try to find my long-lost sister?” 

Wynne sighed and brought her hand up to her face, shaking her head slightly. Chantal simply gawked at Alistair in disbelief. 

“You’re unbelievable.” She stated, rounding on her heel and stalking off to her tent. Trout leaped to his paws and trotted off after her, panting happily. 

What Zevran didn’t expect to happen next, honestly, was for each set of eyes to swing to him. He fought the urge to step back himself. “Yes?”  

“The poor thing has the whole world on her shoulders.” Wynne frowned sympathetically. “Perhaps you should offer a listening shoulder.” 

“Or anything that will make her less angry at me.” Leliana pleaded, eyes wide and frightened. 

‘Oh, so now you wish Zevran to go make it better?” He adopted his own look of mock disapproval mixed with a falsely scandalized tone. 

“You could stay here instead. Perhaps we can see how roast crow tastes, yes?” Morrigan threatened. 

Well, he’d prefer to be with his Warden anyway. 

 

xx

 

When the tent flap opened, Chantal fought the urge to scream, mostly because she thought if she started, she wouldn’t stop until the whole camp burned down around her ears. Her shoulders relaxed as she heard Zevran’s warm, considering hum in his throat. 

“Our comrades have sent me to talk you out of skinning them alive.” Chantal didn’t look over her shoulder, continuing to sort through the potions in her pack. Zevran settled behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She felt his warm lips dancing over her neck, his whisper sending little pulses of heat to her core. “I, however, find nothing more enticing than the thought of you battling them all single-handedly and emerging, gloriously victorious. I would throw myself at your feet and beg to be allowed to serve your whims.” 

“I’m not going to skin them alive.” Chantal sighed and tipped her head back onto Zevran’s shoulder, frowning into his handsome, proud face. “I just… I didn’t sign up for this.” 

“Leading a nation into battle against a formidable enemy while solving the life problems of your dear companions?” Zevran chuckled and kissed the wrinkle on her forehead while tightening his grip on her middle.

Chantal closed her eyes, blocking out the linen walls of their tent, the flickering flames of the fire throwing their shadows on the fabric. She swallowed, hard, all the things threatening to bubble up. All the panic and dread. “Lie down.” Zevran directed gently. “And allow me.” 

She shouldn’t. She needed to check her potions and draughts, she needed to check that the others divided up watch fairly, she needed to ensure Morrigan ate something instead of working through the night, that Wynne’s tent was close enough to the fire, and that the new sharpening stone she found for Sten actually worked. 

But Zevran made it easy, her shirt slipped above her head and his hands making quick work of the bandeau hiding her breasts. Then she was on her bedroll, face pillowed in her arms, his lips kissing down the back of her neck as his hands began to dance up and over her skin. As he traced over her upper back he tsk’d, applying firm pressure to the muscles beneath her skin. 

“Have I told you about the docks in Antiva city?” His palms moved hard against her skin, but somehow also gentle, his voice dropped to a soothing, low rumble. He worked in tight circles as he spoke, easing knots in muscles she had hardly even realized were tight. “At night, the city spills out to the docks. There are cafes, galleries full of beautiful objects, and the finest shops selling silks nearly as soft as your skin, my warden. There are lanterns lit along the water, illuminating the fine ladies and their rich gentlemen…” 

“Sounds like an excellent opportunity for pickpocketing.” She mumbled her words, but found herself trailing into a moan as his hands worked their magic. Zevran chuckled, straddling her hips and nosing her ear affectionately. 

“You are a quick study, Chantal. I always admire that about you, si?” 

She flushed in pleasure beneath him, his praise curling in her belly like the wine Leliana talked her into trying in Redcliffe. Then she moaned again as he found another knot in her shoulder and attacked it with gusto. 

“I still remember it fondly. The smell of the ocean, the glimmer of torch light on the gold jewelry, the scent of fine wine, the sparkling conversation…” 

He painted a vivid picture and she could see all of it. She could hear the merchants hawking their wares, could taste the heady wine he spoke of, feel the silk dresses of the ladies. She was so lost in his story, that she barely realized he’d stopped working on her back, his fingers brushing lightly up and down her spine as he mesmerized her with his voice. 

“When we’re done…” If they survived, Chantal corrected herself internally, stretching under his touch. “I’d like to see it. Maybe you could take me?” 

She turned to look over her shoulder just in time to see Zevran’s expression freeze. It was only a second, perhaps even less than that, but for a moment… for a moment…

He looked frightened, despairing. And Chantal’s heart dropped. 

He recovered almost immediately, but she had seen. She saw how distressed the thought of what came next made him, and she felt herself shrink back even as Zevran smiled charmingly. 

“Ah, my sweet little bird…” He crooned, moving his practiced fingers to her trousers and beginning to slide them down her slim hips. “The wonders of Antiva City are magnificent, true, but nothing compared to the delights in front of me.” 

This was how it was. He was her friend, he offered her endless nights of pleasure, he helped her forget her burden for a moment, but if there was a future after the blight, Zevran would be a free man. No longer bound to her. 

She swallowed the burn in the back of her throat and turned with a smile of her own, determined to enjoy this while she had him. If he was hers for only now… then she would appreciate every second of it. 

Blight be damned.

 

xx

 

When Zevran fell asleep, she dressed again and emerged from her tent. Trout, laying just beside the entrance, woofed at her lightly while she slipped into the night. She felt stronger and more stable, Zev always made her feel like she could bear the weight on her shoulders, but she also felt unsettled. She felt as if she couldn’t quite risk breathing in too deeply.

It would pass. It would certainly pass. 

Leliana stood watch beside Shale. Chantal watched her friend turn at her approach and she  _ wanted _ to tell Leli, wanted to spill out that she wanted Zevran to stay, or take her with him, as long as they stayed together she didn’t  _ care _ . She wanted to confess that she felt  _ more _ than she’d meant to, and perhaps she was silly and naive to think someone like Zev truly wanted her, but she had. She  _ had  _ believe it. She  _ wanted  _ to believe it. 

She wanted to ask Leli what to do about the look on Zev’s face. What to do with the tightness in her lungs.

Instead, Chantal crossed her arms across her chest against the chill of the night and nodded in determination. “Tell me how we can find Marjolaine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS FIC WAS SUPPOSED TO BE PURE SMUT BUT THERE ARE FEELINGS NOW.


	17. What Gifts of Jewelry Mean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal finds the Wonders of Thedas and learns the importance of jewelry in courtship courtesy of Wynne and Leliana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut incoming (very, very angsty smut? Sorry?)

The rain drenched her heavy wool cloak, made it weigh twice as much as it should. However, the weather seemed to suit the dour mood of her little party. Coming to Denerim may have been necessary, but it certainly hadn’t been rainbows and sunshine. Marjolaine was dead, Alistair’s sister was a bitch, and they had lost more dearly needed time that they didn’t really have to lose. Absolutely no one was happy except Zevran, who rejoiced at the sight of a real bed no matter how lumpy the mattress. 

“Hey! The Wonders of Thedas!” Alistair interjected, awkwardly, into their heavy silence. Chantal looked up form under her dripping hood, followed his pointed finger to the store to her right. She then looked back to Alistair, raising an eyebrow silently, pointedly waiting for more of an explanation. 

“Arl Eamon once bought me a miniature golem doll, here... when I was young. Really young." Alistair rubbed his face, turning splotchy and red in embarrassment.

“I haven’t been there in the longest time.” Wynne smiled fondly, in the direction of the store. “I was… oh, just a bit older than you, Chantal.” 

Leliana made a small noise in her throat, looking at the store with a troubling degree of indifference. One that made Chantal more concerned, rather than less. Leliana could never resist a store, made them stop for every peddler and merchant they saw.

But Chantal thought, perhaps, Leliana was still in the room in which they’d found Marjolaine, recounting every decision she’d made to get there, questioning everything. The same way Alistair had been since they left Goldanna. And, honestly, maybe Ali needed the wake up call that he couldn’t keep living in a fantasy, but Leli… Poor Leli, Chantal knew she didn’t need to face losing her faith as well as murdering her former lover.   

“Do you want to go in?” Chantal asked, ignoring the chill of the rain seeping into her cloak. Leliana frowned to herself, opened her mouth to say no, but then paused and looked consideringly down at the boots she wore, mud splattered and worn. “Do you think they sell silk ribbons? I've been meaning to spruce up my boots for the longest time.” 

 

They didn’t have ribbons, but they had  _ literally _ everything else. Chantal felt like her eyes were the size of dinner plates as Leliana held up a pair of slippers made of shimmering blue glass with patterns swirled in gold. She’d never seen anything so lovely and impractical in her life. 

“They were all the rage in Orlais several years ago.” Leliana confided with a small, satisfied smile. “Some bard crafted a ridiculous tale of a woman losing one at a masked ball and a duke searching the countryside attempting to find the lady using only the slipper.” 

“How do you do anything in them?” Chantal asked, holding the other one with a fair degree of puzzlement. “Are they enchanted to be more durable?” 

“Alas, they are not.” Leliana sighed wistfully. “I shattered a pair jumping off a balcony at the Duchess of Blancharde’s winter ball. I was devastated.”

“Sandal could probably enchant them to not break.” Chantal offered, handing the match back to her. Leliana beamed. 

“Oh! Do you think? Perhaps there is a matching scarf…” 

Well, at least she was smiling again. And Alistair was digging through a crate nearby, but when she’d asked what he was searching for he’d turned pink and declared he wasn’t searching for anything at all before hiding a small group of figurines off to the side as if she wouldn’t notice them. 

Leliana drifted away and Chantal turned back to Wynne. The woman had found a section full of gleaming stone and shining metal. Chantal heard her muttering softly to herself as she slipped to her side, peeking at the sculpture Wynne was lifting from a dusty bin. “Hmm… jade, carved and polished into the shape of a large…” 

Wynne turned the sculpture onto its side and suddenly, Chantal recognized it. She couldn’t help the startled giggle that fell from her lips, even as she slapped her palm over her mouth to muffle it. Wynne’s nose wrinkled while she held the phallus shaped monstrosity. “Ah, I see. Well, that’s just rude.” 

Zevran would have loved it. Chantal was half tempted to purchase it just to get him to laugh, but she didn’t much care for the idea of lugging a monstrous green cock to the Brecillian forest with the rest of their luggage. 

Wynne dropped the sculpture pointedly and turned her attention to jewelry dangling from one of the lopsided shelves. She passed her hand over a set of glinting rubies set in an ornate necklace and shook her head. “This, I think, is cursed.” 

“But it’s still very pretty.” Chantal admired the ruby red stones and Wynne shook her head.

“Yes, but I fear it wouldn’t bring out your features, child. I think sapphires would suit your complexion better.” Wynne paused thoughtfully. “Also, I don’t think you’d appreciate your eyeballs exploding.” 

“I am fond of my eyeballs.” Chantal agreed, touching a string of pearls with her finger and setting them swaying. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to waste the coin.” 

“Bah, so practical.” Leliana reappeared, sniffing disdainfully, two fabulous silk scarves in her hand. “Do you like the blue one or the green one?” 

“What are you ladies up to?” Alistair joined them, stretching and yawning while taking in the baubles. One caught his eye and he reached for it without another word, before either Chantal or Wynne could stop him. Thankfully, the one he plucked didn’t seem to be cursed. Wynne relaxed and examined what he held critically. 

“Chasind, I think.” Wynne declared. “Some sort of protection amulet, perhaps? Morrigan would know for certain.” 

“Hah!” Alistair threw the little charm into the air and caught it in his fist again decisively. “I’m going to purchase it for her. I’d like to see what color she turns when she tries to express an emotion beyond disdain. If you’ll excuse me…” 

Alistair sauntered off and, behind his back, Leliana and Wynne shared a look full of hidden meaning. Chantal looked at both of their faces and stiffened, immediately. “It’s good they’re getting along better.” She said, loudly.

“So it is.” Leliana giggled, draping the green scarf around her slim shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “So well, in fact, that jewelry is now involved.” 

Chantal was lost. She cast a hopeless look at Wynne who intervened kindly. “Chantal, when a man gifts a woman a trinket like that it typically signifies… a sort of commitment.” 

“A man does not spend coin on jewelry for no reason.” Leliana advised with a sly grin. Chantal blushed and Leliana’s giggle became a full laugh, the other woman throwing the blue scarf over Chantal’s shoulders. 

“I agree.” Leliana stated with a sparkle in her eye. “Blue suits you much better than red. I shall inform Zevran.” 

 

xx 

 

Zevran examined his reflection in the cracked, grimy mirror critically. He still looked as handsome as ever, yes, but he had a feeling that his current look was perhaps more distinctive than wise. Being back in Denerim made him uneasy, truthfully. The last time he’d been in the city, joined to Chantal’s hip (then joined on Isabela’s ship joined in many, many more interesting ways), he hadn’t exactly taken the time to bother with disguises. He hadn’t thought he’d find himself in Denerim again so soon.

If the Crows had found out where he was… if they found out  _ who _ he was with… 

He tried to dismiss the thought. Chantal, after all, was hardly a helpless damsel. Any would-be assassin would be hard pressed to best her, this Zevran knew better than anyone. In fact, it inspired a certain pride in his Warden. Yet, she was not perfect. She too grew tired, grew complacent at times, and it only took one perfect moment, one lucky strike. Zevran knew that too. 

He thought he was being safe by staying at the hidden, cheap inn they found. Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne could be trusted to watch her back. Still, the hours stretched, the sun began to set, and still Chantal did not return. 

If their little band did not arrive by the time the streets grew dark, Zevran decided he would indeed go hunting the shadows for them. Better safe than sorry, at any rate. There were so many things that could go wrong, after all, and he could not…

He could not risk her. He would not. 

The tapping at the shutters drew him from his dark thoughts. He drew his dagger in half a heartbeat and whirled to the ill-fitting window closures, the crack beneath them not quite large enough for a hand to fit through, but certainly enough for a blade. He waited, the tapping repeated itself, and Zevran frowned at it, trying to place the noise. 

Then he heard a gentle caw, one that sounded almost like a questioning hello, and chuckled to himself. He sheathed his blade and crossed the room, unlatching the shutter in one smooth, deft movement. He threw one side open and looked to his left, to the shiny crow perched on the narrow ledge. 

This, he thought fondly as the bird tipped it’s head consideringly, must have been why she insisted on taking the room with the window. His little bird extended her wings and leaped into the air, sailing gracefully over his head, before she settled elegantly on the end of the bed. Zevran turned back to the shutters and bolted them. 

“Little witch, there is a perfectly serviceable door downstairs.” 

“It’s blocked by Oghren, unfortunately.” When he looked back over his shoulder, the bird had vanished and Chantal perched instead in its place with a mischievous smile, the one she saved only for him. “He’s  _ spectacularly _ inebriated. I sent Wynne in to deal with him, but then she started drinking  _ with _ him.” 

Chantal sounded almost scandalized, dropping her sodden cloak into a heap on the floor, followed immediately by pack and staff. Draped around her neck, a scarf of the deepest, richest blue made her skin glow like porcelain. 

“And you were in a hurry to see me, yes?” Zevran teased, crossing the room to join her on the bed. He couldn’t help but reach out to touch the material, pleased it was as soft as he thought it would be. She had too few fine things, after all. He lifted an eyebrow and Chantal blushed, bringing her own fingers up to the material. “Is this the spoils of your victory, my warden? It does figure that I would choose to stay behind and you would find the good treasures.”

“No, we went to the Wonders of Thedas.” Chantal explained. Zevran’s smile turned salacious in a moment.

“Oh, well that does sound like an interesting place. A brothel, si?” 

Chantal giggled, twisting her arms around his neck and leaning towards him. “No.” She corrected with a grin. “Just a store. Leliana  _ insisted _ I purchase this.” 

“Pity.” Zevran sighed, unwinding the cloth gently from her neck. Leliana hadn’t been wrong, the color suited her perfectly. “I had so hoped you found us a new place to explore.” 

“Did you miss me?” She asked, tipping her head up to ask, without words, for a kiss. Zevran obliged immediately, capturing her mouth and sliding his hand into her dark brown hair, letting his nails scratch gently into her scalp as she melted against him, lips parting for him with a warm, welcoming sigh. 

Miss her? Andraste, when she was gone he could think of nothing but her. The way she sounded, the way she moved, the tilt of her smile and the blush that covered her skin so beautifully. 

“I nearly perished of boredom without your presence.” He murmured, pulling away and tracing his thumb over her pink lips, wind chapped but still so utterly kissable. “Although, I hold out hope my evening will be more entertaining.” 

She laughed, moving to snake one thigh over his lap until she straddled his lap, her arms tightening around his neck. He dropped the scarf and ran one hand up the line of her back, her tunic clung to her skin, damp and cold, from the freezing rain. 

Well, he knew how to warm her up. He slipped his hands under the shirt, finding chilled bare skin, and she pressed against his chest more insistently. Her lips traveled up his jaw, changing to her tongue as she ran it up over his ear, laving the pointed tip with extra care until he moaned.  He buried his face into her neck and inhaled her clean, rain-soaked scent, the metallic tang of alchemy, her heartbeat under his lips. 

His Warden.  _ His _ .

Possessive lust made him growl, nearly ripping her shirt in his haste to get it off and over her head. She laughed again and he pressed his lips to hers, desperate to swallow that sound as well. Her hands moved, practiced after so long sharing a bedroll with him, to pull his own shirt free, to run her hands over the lines of ink spanning his chest. 

When she pulled back, her smile still had the most delicious edge of sweet shyness. He thought it would never fade completely. It was a part of her as surely as her magic, as her bravery and compassion. 

He was so distracted, so disarmed by it, that she got the advantage. She used her own wiry strength against him, sending him sprawling back on the lumpy mattress. He let out a throaty chuckle as she crawled over him, meeting his lips sweetly once more. 

“You, my sweet, are a menace.” 

“Are you complaining?” Chantal asked, reaching up to undo her own breast band. Zevran made a noise of consideration, taking in her form kneeling above him, taut body made lean by months on the road, scars from more close calls than he cared to think about, and the most perfect pair of breasts he’d ever had the blessed luck to see.

“Andraste herself could not compare to you, Chantal.” Zevran ran skilled hands over the pert globes, grinning like a cat in the cream when she shivered in delight. “If the Maker had caught sight of your bosom first…” 

“Andraste can keep the Maker.” Chantal quipped irreverently, undoing the laces on her trousers. “I have you.” 

She did. And she could have so much more. Jewels, riches, scores of admirers of unblemished reputation. And yet…

_ I’d love to see it. Maybe you could take me? _

One question had been enough to send him either fleeing into the night or to his knees begging her to mean it. Her voice had been so soft, almost sleepy, lulled into relaxation by his skilled hands and his stories of home. When she’d asked, his thoughts had hit him like a punch in the gut, a picture of her on the docks of Antiva City, arm looped in his, young and carefree, and he knew then he…

_ He loved her. _

He loved her so desperately he couldn’t hope to fight it any longer. This was no brief wartime romance, no idle pleasure, no passing fancy. He  _ loved _ her, he loved her and he was a fool, a blighted fool, because  _ how  _ could she feel the same? And yet, he could not leave her. He would gauge his own heart from his chest rather than walk away from her now. 

Had she meant it? When she asked if she could go with him, had she known what she asked? To tie her life to his, a criminal of the worst kind, one with a price on his head, his former lover’s blood staining his hands. 

“Zev?” Chantal stripped herself bare, vulnerable to him, the assassin in her bed once more. She paused, looking at his face as if she could divine his scattered thoughts, her hand cupping his jaw. Zevran closed his eyes, unable to bear the gentleness of her gaze, and turned into her hand, pressed a searing kiss against her palm.

He did not deserve her. She was a hero, the only possible savior of Ferelden, and he was…

Nothing. Nothing to anyone except, maybe, to her. 

“Mi amor.” He breathed into her palm, the words at first a playful tease, now more true than anything he ever said to anyone. Mi amor, his love, his heart. “You are nearly too much for me.” 

“I haven’t even gotten started.” She brought her hands down to the laces of his pants, tugged them open rather efficiently. His cock slipped free immediately into her staff calloused palms and he barely managed not to thrust himself into her grip. 

“Chantal…” He had to tell her, and now was as good a time as any, he supposed. Still, the only thing that came from his mouth was her name, and even as he stared into her striking face, he was left breathless. 

She leaned over him, claimed his lips with hers again before sliding one hand between them, her grip guiding him to her warm center. And when he felt her heat, her slick wetness, he couldn’t help himself. He thrust forward, one hand curling around her hip while the other guided her mouth back to his. 

There was no hurry, no reason to rush. This, perhaps their last night in an inn for several more months, was theirs to enjoy. Chantal knew it too and straightened, rocking her hips on top of him, pert tits jiggling with her movement. Zevran kept his grip on her hips, content to feel the way she moved, to watch as she threw her head back in pleasure, her dark hair falling down her back, looking every inch a warrior goddess he could worship gladly. 

The rest of his days, perhaps. 

“Zevran…” She cried out his name as he thrust into that one spot, the one that always left her shattered and keening. She fell forward, finding his mouth again as Zevran thrust steadily within her. The dark hair falling around her face obscured her beautiful eyes, so he moved one hand to impatiently brush it aside.

He was not prepared for her to grab it, to twist their fingers together as she shuddered and moaned, her orgasm ripping through her. Her fingers fit within his like two pieces of a puzzle, and she was chanting his name, already climbing to her next peak. 

It wasn’t his finest performance. She was too much, the feelings too intense, her brown eyes on his and their fingers twined together while he thrust inside her with a hoarse shout, unable to resist following her as she climaxed again. His movements became jerky and he buried himself inside her with nothing but her name on his lips. 

 

Three rounds later, she slept beside him. He knew she wouldn’t sleep long, or well, she never did. In fact, it had only gotten worse the longer they’d been on the road. As if, he thought mournfully, the archdemon’s strength drained hers. But, Chantal had strength to spare, and if anyone could slay a dragon… if anyone could survive this… 

But she slept peacefully for now, her dark hair spread across the pillow, looking ruffled, young, satisfied. Her lips, kiss swollen, turned up at the corners. Zevran allowed himself to trace his nimble fingers down over her cheek, her jaw, through her hair. 

They would face the archdemon, together. He would be by her side, and after…

“Mi amor...” He sighed softly, pulling the blanket over both of them and curling around her. He had no words, no hope for what happened after. His feelings, such as they were, would remain his secret.

If he loved her, after all, he could not  _ possibly _ ask her to love him. She deserved more, and he knew it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ship Alistair and Morrigan AND I ALWAYS HAVE AND YES IT'S BECAUSE THEY HATE EACH OTHER.

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S A CHANTAL AND ZEVRAN STORY.


End file.
